Deception By Design
by r4ven3
Summary: This story opens around 6 weeks after Ruth's death, so this is a post-Ruth's death story, making this AU. It's a serious story, but it has its lighter moments. Characters are a few from S10, plus a number of OCs (because I enjoy writing OCs). It is now a story of 20 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Late November 2011:

"An _American_?" Harry's voice, as well as his face, adequately conveys his disgust.

"Her husband is English."

"Well, that's alright, then, isn't it? That makes her one of us, I suppose. And _Liberty_ \- what kind of name is that?"

Erin knows that the questions will only stop once he has vented his anger, and Harry carries a lot of anger, not that she'd dare mention it. Let Liberty Harrison be the one to deal with it. After all, that's her job. "Given she's American, I thought you'd manage to figure that out on your own."

Harry watches her closely, and Erin can almost read the retorts as they pass through his mind, only to be thrown away by his more rational self. Most grieving people she has known, including herself, have been paralysed by their grief. Not Harry. He's like touchpaper, looking for a light. She watches as his breathing steadies, and his chest no long heaves. Erin has no idea what she'd do were Harry to break down in her presence, which is why the section has been granted the services of Dr Liberty Harrison.

"When can we expect the honour of her presence?" Harry asks at last, his voice calm.

"In around two hours. She first wants to speak to the team as a whole."

Erin waits and watches while the muscles in Harry's jaw work, his eyes flashing as he keeps a lid on his anger. "Very well," he says at last. "I suppose I have little choice in the matter."

Erin nods. "This is not being done just for your benefit, Harry," she says carefully. "The memo stated that we all, especially those of us who were there .. at the scene ... require professional intervention ... someone to talk to."

Harry nods in a way which Erin knows is a sign that she is dismissed. She turns to leave his office, aware that the man in teetering on a knife edge of grief and guilt. She has seen it before, and so recognises the signs.

* * *

"Please call me Libby."

Harry nods. It's his turn to be Liberated - Dimitri's term for a private session with the newly appointed section psychologist. It's just him and the psych in the meeting room. She doesn't waste time. Her session with the whole team had lasted no more than twenty minutes.

"What do you want with me?" Harry asks, working hard to keep the edge from his voice.

"I'm interviewing each member of your team on their own," Dr Liberty Harrison says. "I've already spoken to Erin, Dimitri and Calum. They speak very highly of you."

"But ..."

"Pardon?"

"You begin by praising my role as leader of my team. There has to be a `but'."

Libby glances down at her notes, running her finger down the page. "You've just turned fifty-eight, and a little over a month ago a woman you held in high regard - and were close to - died tragically, and yet here you are, heading up a team perfectly capable of operating without you while you take compassionate leave." Dr Liberty Harrison then lifts her eyes, and stares unblinking and unsmiling at Harry.

Harry stares at the woman, and for a moment he wonders how old she is. She appears no older than his daughter, so how can she possibly understand why it is he _must_ work? Ruth wouldn't want him to be wallowing away on his own at home. She'd want him to work. She'd _expect_ him to work. _Just stay on that wall, Harry_ , she'd say, and with that thought, he hears Ruth's voice in his head, saying: _Don't be sad, Harry. There's nothing to be sad about._ "But there is," he says, having not intended to say the words aloud. Against his will, he feels tears building behind his eyes.

"What were you thinking about .. just then?" Libby Harrison asks, leaning forward in her chair.

She is about to speak again when Harry quickly gets to his feet. "I can't do this," he says curtly, and just as quickly leaves the room. It is only when he is again inside the sanctuary of his office, the door closed behind him, that he is aware of tears rolling down his cheeks. He stands just inside the door, taking deep breaths to calm himself. _It's alright, Harry. Things will work out,_ Ruth says inside his head. Harry closes his eyes, and for a moment he can see her, standing beside the Thames estuary, the wind whipping her hair so that she has to pull it from her face. She lifts her eyes to his, and she is smiling.

He can't do this. He can no longer pretend that he is well enough to be back at work. He may never be whole again. Taking a deep breath, he strides to his desk, lifts the receiver of his desk phone, and dials Erin's desk.

"Yes," she answers, her voice clipped, business-like.

"I'm going home," he says quietly, "and I don't know when I'll be back. I can't ... talk about what happened to some stranger who has in all probability once been a cheer leader, and a homecoming queen, whatever the hell either of those two things are."

"It's alright, Harry. Take all the time you need."

Erin is still on the line, waiting for him to say something else. "I might never come back," he says.

"That's fine. I'll ... come and see you ... at home."

"Right," he says, and then hangs up.

* * *

Harry stands in his front hallway, his eyes on the dark cavern that is his house. He has never in his life felt so alone. He has lived through so many deaths, many of them much loved colleagues, but this time it is different. Six weeks ago Ruth had died, and he still doesn't know what to do, how to be, what to say to people who mean well when they say to him: _I_ _'m sorry about Ruth. You must miss her_ _._ Of course he misses her. He will miss her forever, and he doesn't know if he can bear that degree of pain, that continual level of _missing_. He takes a step back until his back hits the wall, and then he feels his legs give way beneath him, before he slides down the wall until he is sitting, staring at the wall opposite. The house is in darkness. He sighs heavily, allowing his head to drop back against the cold hardness of the wall. Then for the first time since the evening of the day Ruth had died, Harry cries real tears, the sounds of his hacking sobs echoing down the hallway and into the rooms beyond.

* * *

Harry is awake before sunrise, having slept heavily, his first proper sleep since she'd died. Oddly, he feels much better, although once he allows the memory of the past six weeks to seep into his conscious mind, he again feels the tightness of grief in his chest. He takes a series of deep breaths, forcing himself to think about the day ahead, and how he plans to fill it, so that by the time he hears the front doorbell, he has showered, shaved, and eaten two slices of toast, washed down by a mug of strong coffee.

"Don't think I'm checking on you," Erin says, once she is seated opposite Harry at his kitchen table, each with a mug of coffee, "but after yesterday, I needed to know you're all right."

 _All right? How can I be all right? I will never again be all right._ Harry stares across the table at Erin. He can't possibly answer her.

Erin breaks eye contact, glancing around the room, and she thinks it is unusually tidy for a man, especially a man who is grieving. "I need you to know that the Grid will run as usual, and you should not concern yourself about coming back to work .. at least, not until you're ready."

"I can't be away for long, Erin. I need to work."

"I know, but you also need to ..." She stops before saying the word `grieve'. Harry doesn't appreciate platitudes, at least, not when they're directed at him. He would rather honesty from her, or for her to leave him be. She is surprised by how fresh he appears – tidy, clean shaven – although his eyes are dull, and he moves as if operating on auto pilot. "I need you to know that I have some idea of what you're going through."

His eyes flash briefly as he gives her a sharp look. "How is it possible for you to know how I feel?"

"I didn't say I know how you feel, because I don't, but I do know how long the hours and the days are, and will continue to be for some time. I know how endless the night can be when you've … lost .. someone you love."

Erin's words shock him. She has put her finger on the very thing he dreads about being away from the familiarity of work – the endless hours of waiting until night comes, so that he can retire to bed, only to lie awake for hour upon hour, waiting for morning, when hopefully the events of last month will be erased. Is this what his life will be from now on? Endless days followed by even longer nights? "I .." Harry stumbles, not knowing how to answer her. He leaves his question unspoken.

"Rosie's father. I lost him when she was fourteen months old."

"How?"

"He was a horticulturist and a tree surgeon, and a good one. He'd travel all over the country. His area of expertise was woodland trees, especially in the north of the country. He'd spent a week in Cumbria, on a contract with a local council, and he wanted to get back home to Rosie and me. I suggested he wait until Saturday morning to drive home, but he headed home straight after work on the Friday. Just south of Warrington, he fell asleep at the wheel, driving into the back of a lorry." Erin takes a deep breath, the memory of her partner's death still stinging. "He died instantly." She glances up at Harry to see him frowning. "You never get over it," she says quietly. "His death is always there, right beside all the precious memories I have of him. The sad thing is that Rosie has no memory of him. To her, her dad is just a man in a photograph, and until she started school, she believed everyone's dad was a man in a photograph."

Harry's eyebrows draw closer together. "But, Erin, none of this is in -"

"- my personnel file?" Harry nods. "I had all mention of him removed. At the time it seemed like a good idea. Now, I wonder why I did that. I suppose I didn't want anyone's pity, and nor did I want it to be real." She lifts her eyes to his. "Now I know," she says quietly, "that there is nothing in the world more real that birth … or death."

Harry hesitates before asking the question which has been on his lips. "Did you .. see his body?"

"Yes, I did. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever done, but I had to see … to make sure it was him. They'd covered the part of his head that was missing, and what I could see was horribly ..." and there she stopped speaking, deciding to say no more. Erin sits back, watching Harry closely, noting that her story has affected him. "I didn't tell you this to get your sympathy, or to empathise with you, Harry."

"Then why did you tell me?"

"I need you to know that life goes on, and we keep going, even when we don't want to. In a way, Matthew is always with me .. with Rosie and me. It's as though he is always in the next room, about to join us. No matter where we are, he will always be with us." Erin sips her coffee before continuing. "It gets better, but it never completely goes away."

Harry breaks eye contact with her, his eyes on his coffee cup. Her story of the loss of Rosie's father explains a lot about her - her apparent coldness, her attention to detail, her reluctance to engage socially with the rest of the team. Not everything she is is down to her personal ambitions.

"You know ..." Erin continues, "Dimitri reminds me a little of Matt. He's tall and strong and dependable, and he's quiet. Matt was a man of few words. He only ever spoke when he had something to say."

"You and Dimitri?"

"We're friends, Harry. We're close, and he's kind, but friends is all we'll ever be. No-one can take Matt's place."

Harry nods. He knows that feeling well. Ruth was gone for over two years, and then she'd turned away from him on her return, but no-one had been able to step into her shoes, and as he sees it, no-one ever will. "Treasure your memories of her, Harry, and … try to focus your attention on her life, rather than her death." Again she waits as if deciding whether to say more. "If you ever need someone to talk to ... a professional .."

"Not another bloody psychologist!"

"After Matt died, I struggled. There were days when I didn't want to be here, but I had to be ... for Rosie. My section head at the time gave me the name of a former service psychologist who was older ... he's around your age. Yesterday, after you left the Grid, I rang this man. He still works part time. His name is Ken Henry. He's English," she adds, smiling up at him. "If you like, I can give you his number ..."

Harry wants to reject Erin's idea, but he can hardly reject something he hasn't yet tried. "Very well," he says.

After Erin leaves, Harry occupies his hands in tidying the kitchen, while allowing his mind to wander through the last few days of Ruth's life. On the evening before he was scheduled to be handed over to the Americans, Ruth had turned up on his doorstep, a bottle of wine in her hand. They had shared that bottle, and another he'd been saving for a special occasion. Who knew when he'd be returning, or even if. He'd decided that the little time of freedom he had left he'd rather be spending with her, than regretting their long past of unspoken desires and misunderstandings. They'd ended the evening in the kitchen, with him washing the dishes, and Ruth drying. "You don't have to do that," he'd said. "You're my guest."

"I want to. I like how this feels .. being this close to you."

He'd interpreted that as an invitation, so he'd leaned down to place his lips on hers. He'd expected reluctance on her part, but Ruth had dropped the tea towel on the floor, turning towards him to slide her arms around him as she returned the kiss with enthusiasm. They had kissed again and again, the dishes forgotten, until it had been he who had pulled away, his hands grasping her hips, pushing her from him, drawing air deeply into his lungs in an attempt to calm himself. He'd noted the hurt in her eyes, but this was not the time to be taking things further. He'd said as much to her, and she'd argued with him.

"So when will be the time, Harry?"

He'd sighed heavily. "I suspect the right time was around a month ago .. or a year, or perhaps five years ago. We've wasted every good opportunity presented to us."

"Then nor should we waste this one."

Put like that, he was unable to argue further. He'd grasped her hand and led her upstairs to his bedroom, where he'd quietly closed the door behind them. That night they'd made a memory which for him would forever be tinged with sadness – their first and last time.

"I love you," he'd murmured as they lay together afterwards, their naked skin slick with their combined sweat.

"I know you do," Ruth had replied. He'd smiled into the dark, knowing that what she'd meant was, `I love you, too.'

Next morning by the Thames he had kissed her briefly, not wanting to draw out their farewell. As he'd walked away, the sounds of her sobbing had reached his ears, hurting him more than he was prepared to admit. At the time, he'd believed that their one night together would provide comfort during his time of incarceration, not knowing that within forty-eight hours he would be free, and she would be dead.

On his first day of compassionate leave Harry drives to Suffolk to inspect the cottage which Ruth had planned to buy. He quickly decides against buying the cottage Ruth had chosen for them both, since without her shining presence, the house would be little more than an empty shell, a continuing reminder of what he'd lost.

On the long drive back to London he is formulating an alternate plan when his phone rings. It is Towers, so he ignores the call. The last thing he needs is a conversation with the man. For the first time since Ruth had returned from Cyprus, Harry fully understands the guilt Ruth had carried with her after George had died. It is a soul destroying, crippling, gnawing, gut-wrenching feeling, and he believes he deserves every ache, every pain, and every `what if?' that plagues him in the moments he spends alone. As he sees it he has no other option than to get out of London, and far away from Thames House - just for a while, until he gets his head straight.


	2. Chapter 2

Ten weeks later - February 2012:

When Erin had handed him Ken Henry's business card, Harry had slid it into his wallet, behind a few other business cards, with the intention of ignoring it. With help from his daughter, he had found a rental property on the coast near Felixstowe – a remote cottage which overlooks the sea – and since moving there, well away from the clamour and painful memories of London and his everyday life, strange things had begun happening, things which could not be explained, and which he felt unable to share with friends or family. He doubted a former intelligence service psych could help, and he wasn't about to change the habits of a lifetime. He had always dealt with his own grief, stuffing it down into his body, so that whenever it began creeping into his throat, he'd use his time honoured method of silencing the voices which haunted him, telling him he was the one whose fault it was such horrors had befallen so many. His solution to the knot of pain in his throat and chest has always been alcohol, copious amounts of it. While staring through the living room window at a grey sea, Harry at last admitted to himself that he needed help, and Ken Henry was probably a healthier option than the contents of a bottle of fine single malt. While whiskey never asked questions, and never judged him, it also never offered rational solutions, resulting in Harry conceding that perhaps he'd benefit from speaking to someone who had a history of listening to people like him, spies who had lost just one person too many. Hopefully the man wouldn't be shocked or surprised by anything he had to say.

* * *

Ken Henry lives in an old Georgian home on the northern outskirts/ of Colchester, just off the A12. Of similar age to Harry, he is tall and slim, with grey hair cut close to his scalp, and as he opens his front door, Harry takes note of the man's faded denim jeans and shirt, along with the navy jumper draped around his shoulders. On his first visit to speak with Ken Henry, Harry is relieved to look up into grey eyes which are kind, and perhaps wise, before he is led down a long hallway to a conservatory which overlooks the back garden, a vast, grassed area surrounded by shrubs and trees. Winter has stripped the leaves from the trees, and on this grey day, they resemble a quiet community of scarecrows, silently waiting for spring.

Ken Henry shows Harry to a comfortable chair, before taking the other chair, across from a low table on which is placed a pen and a pad of paper. "In case I need to take notes," Ken Henry says, noting the direction of Harry's glance.

"I need to tell you that I'm not here to emote," Harry says, once he's comfortably sitting in his chair. He has been trained to hide his emotions, and so he is not about to change the default behaviour of a lifetime.

"And given the nature of your training, I don't expect you to." Harry notes that the other man has laughter lines at the corners of his eyes, and they deepen whenever he smiles, which is often. Ken Henry's voice is deep and calm, and easy on the ears. "Most people in your position - having lost someone they care about - just want to be able to make sense of their loss."

"What if, no matter which way you look at it, it still doesn't make sense?"

"Most deaths don't make sense, especially when the person who has died is still young. Erin Watts told me your ... friend was in her early forties."

"Forty-one."

"That's too young by far. My wife was forty-eight, and that was far too young."

"Your wife?" Harry hadn't expected this.

"I'm a widower," he says, while watching Harry closely. "She died ten years ago. My particular … area of interest is grief. My clients range from children who have lost a parent or sibling, to adults who have lost children, partners, or their life savings. I also see relinquishing mothers whose children were adopted decades ago. There is no end to the events which can trigger grief."

"But .." Harry stumbles over his words, "I was told you'd once worked within the intelligence service."

"I did, yes, and I left when my wife first fell ill. I have to say that there is more unexpressed grief within the intelligence service than in the population at large. Many intelligence agents operate on little more than grief and adrenalin. It's hardly a healthy occupation." He points towards the kitchen. "Would you like a coffee? Tea?"

"No, thank you. I'd rather like to ..."

".. get on with this?" Ken grins widely, and Harry wonders does the man have a touch of the sadist about him.

"I suppose so. I'd quite like this to be over."

* * *

"So tell me why you're here," Ken Henry had begun, leaning back in his chair, one long leg folded over the other.

Harry had expected that question, and he'd planned to reply with: _because everyone in my life thinks I need to be here,_ but he'd been distracted by the laughter lines at the corner of the man's eyes, and he'd wondered what there was to laugh about after a loved one had died. So he begins telling the story of Ruth, from the time he'd met her to the time of her death. Strangely, once he'd related the story of how Ruth had died, Harry had felt much lighter. "Does it get any easier?" he asks at last. "I mean .. the missing her."

"No, it doesn't," Henry had replied. "It's not time which heals wounds, Harry, but rather the opportunity time affords us to adjust to them. I miss Helen every day, but I'm better at living without her than I was a year ago, or even a week ago. It doesn't mean that I miss her any less, or that I love her any less. There are still nights when I climb into bed, and turn to tell her something, then remember she's no longer with me. Some habits take longer to break." It had been then that Harry had decided that he liked Ken Henry, and that what he had to say made sense. "When a person loses someone they love dearly, they often believe that were they to stop grieving for their loved one they will somehow stop loving them, and so they interpret that as a betrayal. They hang onto the pain for far longer than is healthy because they are afraid of betraying their loved one. But the opposite is true. After the pain eases, the love remains. To me, that is the most miraculous thing of all."

That had been almost a month ago. Harry had woken on the morning of his second appointment with tears in his eyes, having dreamed of Ruth. She had been sitting on his bed, watching him as he slept. She'd talked to him in a soothing voice, but the words she'd spoken had been similar to every time he'd dreamed of her – strange words which didn't quite add up. _You know I'm not really here, Harry, don't you?_ she'd said that morning, the morning of his second psych appointment. _Th_ _e_ _y need you to believe I_ _'m gone_ _._

He'd sat up in bed, but there had been no-one there. "Who are _they_?" he'd asked aloud, looking around the darkened room and seeing nothing out of place. He'd thought he could smell her perfume, but Ken Henry had already warned him of the effects of him wishing for Ruth to still be alive. "We can create images and smells and sounds in our imagination, just as a composer hears the music before it is written down. The imagination is a wonderful thing, but it can also trick us into believing that what our senses tell us is true."

Harry had got out of bed, dressed in warm trousers, walking boots and a thick jacket, walking along the sea front until he could walk no more. Then he had stood looking out to the grey sea, before he'd leaned his head back and shouted - screamed, really - until he was hoarse. Then his body slumped and he'd cried real tears, the first he'd shed since the evening of the day he'd left the Grid.

By the time he reached his cottage he had worked up an appetite, so he'd cooked a fry up fit for a man half his age. He'd known how easy it would be to lose perspective. It was only in those dark days immediately following Ruth's death that he had briefly considered taking his own life. He had not wanted to live in a world without Ruth, so rather than act in a way from which there was no returning, he had turned to the bottle. He had continued drinking heavily until the evening he recognised he was at a critical point in his life. Looking in the mirror above the dresser in his bedroom at his reddened eyes and blotchy skin, he admitted to himself that he really didn't want to destroy himself with alcohol, or lack of interest in living. He _did_ have more life to live. He had his children, a few friends who seemed to value his company, and perhaps one day there would be a grandchild or two.

So, when next he visits Ken Henry, he begins by recounting his strange dreams of Ruth.

"It's odd," he says, suddenly reminded of how Ruth used to say those same two words when perplexed by some conundrum or other. "It's as though she's with me in person, while at the same time she's telling me that she's not really dead."

Harry looks up at Ken Henry, who appears deep in thought. Harry is relieved that this man does not peel off answers like he's quoting from a text book, but considers everything Harry says as though hearing it for the first time. "Did you see Ruth's body … after her death?"

"I was with her as she died. I kissed her .. after she stopped breathing."

"Are you sure she wasn't breathing? When someone is unconscious, their breathing slows, and if the ambient temperature is low enough, then a person can survive even longer without the brain being damaged." Ken hesitates before he continues. "Did you see her body … in the morgue, or in the casket prior to burial?"

Harry shakes his head, a horrifying, but joyful possibility emerging, something which he can barely consider, let alone believe. "I didn't wish to see her … cold and dead."

"But you say you saw her when she first died."

"Yes, but she was still warm."

"And you didn't accompany her body to the hospital?"

"No. I wasn't exactly thinking straight. I thought I might go there later, but when I got home, I collapsed on my bed and stayed there." Harry leans forward in his chair. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Ken smiles, and shakes his head ever so slightly. "I'm not saying anything, Harry. I'm just determining the time line of events. You were not present when end of life was declared -"

"Erin – my colleague – said she was dead, so … it appeared she was, so I took her word for it."

Harry flops back in his chair. He can't believe this. He cannot allow a flickering light of hope to fool him in this way. Harry knows more than most how false optimism can be a far darker place than the bottomless pit of deep, unending grief; the cycle of loss, grief, and recovery can exhaust even the most resilient of people. He is well aware that the very thing they are skirting around is just a long shot, and nothing more.

"I must ask you to not get your hopes up." Ken is leaning forward, his forearms resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasped, his expression neutral. "But I have to also say that I have had several situations with intelligence personnel in which what I am witnessing here actually happened … which isn't to say that your Ruth is alive."

Seeing Harry's expression change from hope to shock, to grief, and then back to shock, Ken stands. "This calls for a change of venue," he says. "I think we should move to the kitchen where I have a pot of coffee brewing .. for emergencies such as this."

Harry hopes Ken hasn't noticed his look of distaste. In Harry's universe the only drink to be had in `emergencies' is whiskey, and it needs to be imbibed in abundant quantities.

* * *

Harry and Ken sit on tall stools at the breakfast counter in Ken's kitchen, jarringly modern amid the wooden beams and high ceilings of the Georgian home. Watching Harry closely, Ken recognises the inner battle going on in his client – between hope and despair – and he has no wish to exacerbate an already delicate situation.

"What do you suggest I do now?" Harry asks quietly, briefly lifting his eyes to Ken before dropping them back to the black coffee in front of him.

Ken Henry is fascinated by Harry's eyes, which can flip from icy cold to hyper alert, and then to warm, and eventually to deep sadness, all in the space of a few seconds. "Given you're on extended leave," he says, "you don't currently have access to the investigative resources of the security service."

"Ruth was always my go-to person," Harry says morosely.

"Do you know anyone at all who can … safely, that is … investigate the circumstances surrounding Ruth's death? The first port of call needs to be the hospital records on the day of her death. Perhaps -"

"I have someone who might be willing to do that," Harry says, suddenly brightening. "I can't think why I didn't consider him earlier."

"Can this man be trusted?" Ken asks quietly.

"If I can't trust him, I can't trust anyone."


	3. Chapter 3

March - 2012:

Harry waits a little over a week, mulling over what exactly he needs to be doing, and the likelihood that the outcome he wants is even possible, before he drives to London. Were he not to begin digging, probing, and scratching at old sores, he'll never know if what he suspects is in fact true. It is fortunate for him that he enjoys driving, and the two or so hours it takes to drive to London places him in a private bubble where he can wander through his own thoughts while still paying attention to the traffic on the A12. He knows his thoughts are taking him into dangerous territory, and he also acknowledges he needs to curb them, and keep himself on the side of rationality and truth. It's just that he misses Ruth, and he has lost what they were about to have together, and he's been unable to let go of that dream - the dream of a long retirement spent with her. He also knows that he is visiting Malcolm in part to receive the cold slap of reality which will surely be the other man's response to his suspicion that Ruth just may not have shuffled off her mortal coil after all.

But Ken Henry had told him that he knew of several instances where the security service had faked agents' deaths, where even the members of the immediate families of the agents had been kept out of the loop. As Harry sees it, if it had happened before, it could happen again.

When Malcolm answers the door Harry is ushered inside. The two men sit at a large polished dining table which overlooks the back garden, while they drink tea and eat cake. Harry has no idea how to bring up the subject of Ruth having possibly (and miraculously) survived the stabbing, so he waits, hoping the right moment will present itself.

"You must have driven all this way for a very good reason," Malcolm says at last, his eyes on Harry, watching him, assessing him. "I'm assuming this is more than just a social visit."

Harry nods, turning his attention to the garden outside the window, not dissimilar to Ken Henry's garden, but on a much smaller scale. Very quietly and carefully, he tells Malcolm about his visits to Ken Henry, along with the psychologist's suggestion that the circumstances surrounding Ruth's death be discreetly investigated. When he is finished talking, he turns his eyes to Malcolm, who, like the old spook he is, shows no reaction at all.

"Are you sure about this?" Malcolm says quietly, following a lengthy silence.

"Of course not. I have nothing to go on other than a handful of odd dreams, an instinct, and the encouragement of my psychologist." _Plus her voice in my head_ , but he chooses to omit that particular detail.

Malcolm sits for a long time, staring through the window at his garden, while the fingers of one hand toy aimlessly with the spoon on his saucer. He contemplates his garden for a good two minutes. "You know," he begins, "a garden is such a source of pleasure for me. I like to think it stands in the place of children in my life … as well as a partner. I can nurture the garden, and love it, the way I'd like to think I could love a partner, or even children, were I to have been so blessed." He falls silent again, before turning to face Harry. "I am prepared to do whatever you need me to do, Harry, but it would be remiss of me to not warn you of the likelihood that your dreams are just that."

"I am well aware of that," Harry says, a little too curtly.

"You know," Malcolm begins quietly, having ignored Harry's blunt reply, "I heard that the Home Secretary stood in for you .. as next of kin. He was the one who, in your absence, identified Ruth's body."

"I hadn't known that," Harry says, sitting back in his chair, resting his palms on the table top.

"So you see, with that small detail, there is already room for deception. A family member – or you, for instance – would not have been easy to persuade to enter into a cover-up, were that to have been what took place."

Harry draws his eyebrows together. "You know … I was never even asked to identify her body. Don't you think that strange?"

"In retrospect, yes, although at the time, I imagine it was considered too upsetting for you to have been the one to identify her."

"But I was with her when she died. I'd already seen her body."

"That's what I'm saying, Harry. The ploy, if that's what it was … to keep you from identifying her only makes sense had there been something to hide."

By this time both men are sitting back in their chairs, staring across the table at one another. Harry can't suppress the surge of hope emerging from deep inside his chest. "Do you still think I'm an old fool for wanting to investigate her death?"

"I never thought you were," Malcolm says. "Were I in your shoes, I'd be asking myself the very same favour you are asking me."

"So .. you'll do it?"

Malcolm's face wreaths in a rare smile. "Just try and stop me."

* * *

By the time Harry pulls his car into the carport beside his cottage, it is almost dark. As he'd driven the last few miles to his cottage an approaching thunderstorm has darkened the sky, lightning winking along the horizon. He is relieved to have arrived home before the deluge.

On his way home from London, needing to share his news with someone, Harry had rung Ken Henry, a spur of the moment decision, asking for an hour of his time.

"I only had two appointments this morning, so I'd be happy to see you," Ken had said cheerfully.

"You can consider this a professional call," Harry said when Ken met him at the front door.

"I wouldn't think of it," Ken had replied in his calm, soothing voice, which on any other occasion would give Harry cause for suspicion. "I don't get many visitors these days. My wife was the sociable one. My job was to carry the drinks, while sounding half way intelligent. Whenever I'd begin talking like a psychologist, Helen would give me one of her looks from across the room, reminding me of my manners."

Harry had nodded. Not for the first time, he regrets having not been brave enough earlier in their acquaintance to convince Ruth to be with him. They were close, but had only that one night of intimacy.

Over a cup of strong black coffee, Harry had told Ken about his visit to Malcolm. "He's former intelligence," Harry had said, "now retired. He now develops software, mostly for surveillance."

"He'd be doing well, then," Ken had commented. "It appears that the world can never have enough surveillance." His last comment was made with a lift of one eyebrow. "I'm assuming that your friend thinks there might be substance to our suspicions."

"If he didn't, he'd tell me straight out. He'd not want to waste my time … or his own."

Like Malcolm had earlier in the day, Ken had waited some time before replying, a thoughtful look on his face. "It will be important for you to … expect the very best outcome, while at the same time maintaining touch with reality."

"Of course."

"It's only because you're former intelligence that I even suggest you follow through with this. Were you a civilian I'd be steering you well away from this investigation." Ken had dropped his eyes to his half drunk coffee before he continued. "The first year after the death of a loved one is when you are at your most vulnerable, and so the wisest approach … the _sanest_ approach would normally be to wait a while, until more concrete evidence is found, but given you're already well acquainted with death, I thought you should at least be given encouragement to try search for the truth surrounding Ruth's death, even if, in the end, you discover that she is still dead."

Harry hesitates, mulling over Ken's description of him as `former intelligence.' Strangely, he has been thinking of himself in the same way. "Which I'm hoping my former technical officer can provide," Harry said at last. "If it appears Ruth _has_ died, he'll not keep that information from me."

Harry had stayed for an hour, and then pleaded a need to be home before dark. "Please send me your invoice for today," he had said as he prepared to leave.

"I wouldn't think of it," Ken said. "I've enjoyed your visit."

When he climbs the stairs that night on his way to bed, Harry is aware that the heaviness in his body and his heart has lifted, leaving room for optimism, something he'd not experienced since the brief conversation he and Ruth had shared just before she was stabbed. Lying quietly in bed he allows himself the indulgence of once again remembering the delicate moment when Ruth had asked him to leave the service to live with her. He is aware that part of him is still back there, in that moment before everything in their lives fell apart. He falls asleep quickly, covered by the duvet, while outside his cottage the thunderstorm rages, rain pelting against the windows like so many stones. Finding the raging of nature comforting, a symphony of sound, Harry sleeps through it all, waking next morning to a world cleansed and refreshed.

* * *

For the next five days Harry keeps busy. He doesn't allow himself to think about what Malcolm may or may not find. He needs to keep occupied, so each morning, weather permitting, he takes a fishing rod, tackle box, and folding chair to the shoreline, and fishes from the beach. He is not expecting to catch anything; it is the ritual and rhythm he is needing. It is the repetition of casting a line, and then waiting for a change in the weight of the line over his finger – a slow slipping or a tug, a sign which tells him that his cast is successful. It is just him, the beach, his fishing rod and line, and any fish that might be in search of an easy feed. That is all. Nothing else exists for him; not his past or his future, not even Ruth.

In the five days he heads to the beach he catches just enough fish to feed himself, with a few left over to wrap and place in the small freezer in his fridge. Added to the catching of the fish is the satisfaction to be had from another ritual - that of flouring, battering, and then cooking the fillets of whiting each evening - which soon replaces the cycle of grief and hope, followed by another surge of grief. On the evening of the fifth day he has only just cleaned up after dinner when his phone rings.

"Harry, it's Malcolm."

Harry's heart rate increases, and the thundering in his ears drowns out all other sound. "Malcolm," he says at last, "did you just say something?"

"I said that I have news, and it's not good, but nor is it bad."

"What does that mean?" Expecting the worst news possible, Harry is irritated with Malcolm for being so vague .. so indirect. How like bloody Malcolm to begin by speaking in riddles?

"It means what I said. Indications – from the hospital files I accessed – are that Ruth's time of death was listed as 4.20 pm, which is around ninety minutes after you and members of your team witnessed her death. The death certificate, as well as the formal release of her body were both signed by the same doctor – Evan Swindler – and the person who signed both as next of kin was -"

"William Towers."

"Yes." Malcolm allows the single word to leave him gently, the word little more than a sigh.

"Swindler by name .." Harry says quietly.

"Swindler by nature," Malcolm completes the sentence for him. "Except we really don't know that … at least, not yet."

"Swindler is a Home Office doctor. Why was he there, and why wasn't there a hospital consultant to sign both documents?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that, Harry."

Harry sighs heavily, feeling his shoulders tightening, while the aching in his back returns. He is angry and upset. This is something beyond the loss and grief he feels as a result of Ruth's senseless death. This is potentially another betrayal. Who would be behind such a betrayal? Perhaps he needs to look no further than the names on Ruth's formal release from the morgue of St Thomas' Hospital.

"But there is something more I can do," Malcolm says carefully, "although were I to do this, I feel I need your permission."

"You're suggesting that you investigate communications within the Home Office, and especially between Towers and Swindler. Am I right?"

"That's where I'd begin, yes, but I also feel that there may have been something … some small memo between Towers and .. other people who may have been interested in keeping the truth from you."

"Such as?"

Malcolm hesitates, and Harry is about to tell him to hurry up when he speaks - carefully and quietly. "There are myriad suspects, Harry, but my first port of call would be certain members of the JIC."


	4. Chapter 4

In the long and lonely weeks following Ruth's funeral the one bright light in his life, the reason Harry had dragged his weary body out of bed each morning, had been his daughter. Catherine had returned to the UK only days before Ruth had died, and she'd become a regular visitor in the dark days following the funeral. It had been during that time that Harry had been reminded of why he was still alive, when the most beautiful eyes he had ever known had closed forever.

He had even returned to work for a while, just for something to do to fill his days. He had gone through the motions of living and working each day, aware that the section was being run quite effectively by Erin, Calum and Dimitri, and that his presence had been little more than ceremonial .. if that. He'd occupied his office, answered the phone, attended meetings, and then gone home to an empty house, an apt metaphor for his empty life.

During the long and difficult weeks following Ruth's death Catherine would unexpectedly turn up at his front door just before dinner time, brushing past him to hurry to the kitchen, where she'd prepare a simple meal for them both. They'd talked little, because Harry had not the energy for conversation, but her concern and caring had touched him more than he was able to say.

"Have you given any thought to what I mentioned last time I was here?" she'd asked one cold evening soon after his fifty-eighth birthday in early November. Harry had turned up the heating, so there had been no need for them to retire to the living room. They'd sat across the kitchen table from one another, a cup of coffee along with a glass of Port in front of them both.

He looked up, frowning, wondering what exactly she was talking about.

"You know," Catherine had continued, smiling at him, wondering had the shock of Ruth's sudden death tipped him into early dementia, "I mentioned that I'd help you find a rental place somewhere on the coast ... somewhere you can take long walks, and fish to your heart's content."

Harry had nodded, not really caring all that much. If it made Catherine happy, and even better, were it to keep her with him just that little bit longer, then he'd do whatever she suggested.

"But you'd have to take extended leave. This is not to be a weekender, Dad. You need somewhere you can hang your hat."

"I normally don't wear a hat."

Catherine had smiled at him indulgently. "It's a metaphor," she'd said, clarifying.

"I know," and he'd smiled a genuine smile into his daughter's eyes. If there was a silver lining to Ruth's untimely death, it had to be that he was seeing his daughter every week, and sharing long and leisurely meals with her.

* * *

Two days after Malcolm had rung him with his promise to look even further into the two people who just may have covered up the truth about Ruth's death, Harry is surprised when a knock on the front door of his coastal cottage reveals Catherine carrying an overnight bag.

"How lovely to see you," he says, quickly gathering her in his arms in a bear hug.

"I hope the bed in the spare room is made up," she replies, her voice muffled from her face being pressed against her father's shoulder.

"Of course," he replies. "I've been expecting you to visit me here," and when he drops his arms, allowing her to step out of his embrace, he sees that Catherine has been crying. "Is something wrong?"

"You could say that, but first I need a caffeine fix."

Over a cup of coffee, Catherine tells Harry her latest news. "Fabian broke up with me," she says, her voice thin and weak, devoid of her usual confidence.

"Surely not. You've been together, what is it, seven .. eight years?"

"On and off, but this time it's definitely off for good. I can't take any more. He broke up with me over the phone, and yesterday I received a box with all the stuff I'd left at his place, including most of the gifts I'd given him. The bastard kept the watch I gave him two years ago."

"The man's a bloody idiot," Harry says gruffly, "and he should thank his lucky stars he's in another country right now, because -"

"- you'd give him a bollocking?"

"More like a beating."

"Dad, it's not the Middle Ages."

Harry sits back in his chair, saddened by the tragic turn in both their lives. "What was his excuse, anyway?"

"Excuse?" Catherine looks up at him, her confusion clear.

"His reason for breaking up."

"The usual. While I was busy filming in Greece he met someone else, and so he finds he no longer loves me, and - get this - he declared that he probably never did love me, not like he loves Somer -"

"Somer?"

"She's also French, and she's beautiful."

"You're beautiful," Harry murmurs.

"And you're biased."

"I'm allowed to be. It's my prerogative to believe my daughter to be the most beautiful woman in the world."

Catherine is watching him closely. He can feel her eyes on him. She waits until he looks up before speaking. "You don't really mean that."

"Of course I mean it. Every father believes that about his daughter."

"But ..." and Harry can hear the hesitation in her voice, "you must have thought that about Ruth as well."

"Of course."

"And Mum."

Harry lifts his eyes to Catherine. "Your mother has always been very attractive. It's just that what we became together wasn't at all attractive."

Catherine nods, and then quickly drops her eyes. "Mum says I should try to get him back, and if that doesn't work, I should find someone else toot sweet."

"She said that?"

"Those exact words." To Harry's relief, Catherine is smiling widely, even though her eyes are still red-rimmed and deeply sad. "She says I need to get back on the dating saddle, and show Fabian that he hasn't broken my heart."

"Your mother always did have a unique way of dealing with tragedy," he says. Feeling a wave of discomfort emanating from his daughter, he says nothing more, but hasn't long to wait before Catherine explains herself.

"I hope you don't mind, but I told Mum about Ruth, and ... everything."

"Everything?"

"Maybe not everything, but I told her there'd been a woman in your life whom you'd loved, and that she'd .."

"- died," Harry finishes for her. When Catherine nods, he continues. "How did she take that?"

"She seemed genuinely sad for you, Dad. She asked me to give you her sympathy and her regard. I believe she meant it."

"You shouldn't have to be the messenger between us, Catherine."

"I know I shouldn't, but ... I thought she should know that you'd found love again. She needed to know that you're capable of loving someone."

"I love you and your brother," he says gruffly.

"You know what I mean."

He does, of course, and he is so moved that he cannot speak, so he quickly stands, gathering their empty cups and glasses. "It's time I prepared dinner," he says quietly, avoiding Catherine's intense gaze. "I hope you like fish."

"I adore fish," she replies in a voice which suggests she'd rather eat razor blades.

* * *

Harry passes a few gentle days in his daughter's company. Neither are in an especially talkative mood, although they each find the presence of the other both comforting and healing. With Catherine under his roof Harry has barely given Ken Henry a thought, and it's only as he's lying under the duvet waiting for sleep that he wonders how Malcolm's research is progressing. He knows there is no need to contact Malcolm, who is one of the most reliable people he knows. Malcolm will wait until he has the required information, and then he will be the one to contact Harry.

Best of all, with Catherine sharing his living space, accompanying him on beach walks, and even on a couple of fishing expeditions closer to Felixstowe, Harry has less opportunity for swimming in a sea of guilt and grief, so as the days pass he finds his dark mood lifting. He has not forgotten Ruth; there is barely a moment when she is not in his thoughts, but his thoughts about her are now fond and loving memories, rather than regrets which gnaw at his gut like a busyness of ferrets.

Catherine has made no move to return to London, and nor has Harry mentioned it. She is currently between jobs, waiting for her editor to complete the last job before she launches herself into her next project. To Harry's trained eye she appears mildly depressed, but he's not been brave enough to say that to her face.

* * *

When Malcolm eventually contacts Harry he does it in person by turning up unannounced at the front door of Harry's cottage in mid afternoon a week after Catherine had arrived, and it is Catherine who opens the door to him.

"I don't know if you remember me, but -"

"You must be Malcolm," Catherine says, opening the door wider, and ushering him inside. "Dad's told me about you, and what you're .. doing for him."

"I thought I'd deliver my findings in person," Malcolm says, appearing a little embarrassed. "I needed to blow out a few cobwebs. London can be so ..."

"Loud?" Catherine finishes for him, and they both laugh. "Tea? Coffee?"

"Thank you. Whatever you're making."

"Tea it is, then. My long term partner just broke up with me," Catherine prattles as she gathers together the tea-making things, having shown Malcolm to a seat at the large table which occupies most of the floor space in the cramped kitchen, "and his preferred beverage is coffee, so now I'm drinking tea."

Malcolm has little idea how to reply to that, so he doesn't even try. "Harry not in?" he asks.

Catherine sits down while she waits for the electric kettle to boil. "Dad's upstairs asleep," she says quietly, examining her fingers as she speaks. "He had a rough night last night, so I suggested he catch some shuteye."

No sooner has Catherine said the word, `shuteye' than they hear the upstairs toilet flush, and a few minutes later Harry joins them. He and Malcolm shake hands, and then he makes his own coffee while Catherine pours tea for Malcolm and herself. As Harry sits beside her, he can detect the discomfort in her posture. She knows why Malcolm is here, and like him, she doesn't want Malcolm's findings to be bad news.

"I should take this upstairs," Catherine says, suddenly standing, her mug of tea in one hand.

"You don't have to," Harry says, looking up at her pleadingly. "I'd prefer it were you to stay," but Catherine has made up her mind, and glancing apologetically at Malcolm, she hurries from the room. Her rapid footsteps on the wooden stairs echo in the silence.

"It might be easier without her in the room," Malcolm says at last, "given what I have to tell you includes some names ... in the intelligence service."

Harry nods, and takes a sip of his coffee. "Fire away, Malcolm. The sooner you spill the beans, the sooner -"

"- the sooner you can leave to look for Ruth," Malcolm says quietly.

Malcolm continues speaking quietly, but Harry is unable to hear his voice. He watches Malcolm's mouth move, but the roaring in his ears drowns out all external sounds. All he can hear, over and over in a continual loop, are the words, "the sooner you can leave to look for Ruth".


	5. Chapter 5

It is several minutes before Harry is once again fully in the room with Malcolm. "Could you repeat that please?" he says. "The first bit, if you don't mind."

"The bit about Ruth?" Harry nods, a frown puckering his forehead. "It's not absolutely definite, of course. I won't be convinced until I see her in person, but as I interpret the evidence I have gathered, there are myriad reasons to believe Ruth survived the stabbing .. and beyond."

"And that evidence is?"

Malcolm opens a folder he'd placed on the table in front of him, and removes an A4 sized photograph. "Do you know this man?"

Harry leans across and squints as he gazes at a photograph of a man in his early to mid forties, with dark hair and a receding hairline. The face of the man is thin, and his nose is long, and his lips full. Harry nods. " _He's_ behind this?"

"He's one of many. Has he ever threatened you?"

"Threatened _me_? Isn't it more likely the man we're looking for would have threatened Ruth?"

At any other time, Harry would have taken himself through the likely suspects, the time and place of any contact he'd had with them, and the reasons Ruth's death may have been faked. At this moment, his mind is numb, his reasoning impaired. He dare not feel joy .. or hope .. or optimism, and he dare not imagine Ruth being somewhere living and breathing, smiling and laughing, perhaps waiting for him to come looking for her. He can't allow himself to entertain that possibility, so he pushes down his warring emotions, which results in confusion, and difficulty in understanding what it is Malcolm is suggesting.

"Perhaps if I tell you what it is I've found." When Harry nods mutely, Malcolm continues, speaking slowly and carefully, and as he reveals his findings, a story of deception and illusion slowly emerges. Harry tries to concentrate as Malcolm speaks, but he feels that he only catches a fraction of what he is being told. After almost an hour of Malcolm speaking, illustrating his story with more images for clarification, and Harry asking questions along the way, Malcolm falls silent.

"I'll leave you with this folder," he says quietly, pushing it across the table towards Harry. "I'll be spending a couple of nights at a hotel in Ipswich, and when you're ready to discuss this with me, I'll be here as soon as I can. It will take a while for it all to sink in," and as suddenly as Malcolm had appeared, he is gone, leaving Harry with a folder of information which has the power to turn his life around.

Harry stands at the bottom of the stairs, contemplating whether he should share the news with Catherine. He decides that he needs to pour himself a proper drink and read everything in the folder Malcolm has left with him.

He tidies the table in the kitchen, stacking their used crockery in the sink. Then he pours himself a whiskey - just a small one - and once more sits at the table, this time with the folder open in front of him. Beside the folder he has several sheets of blank paper and a pen. He has learned over time that when in a state of confusion, it helps to take notes.

* * *

When Catherine comes downstairs, she finds her father sitting at the kitchen table, sheets of paper and photographs spread around him. It is almost dark, so she turns on the light.

"Turn it off," Harry says roughly, but with just those three words spoken, Catherine is able to read a level of distress in his voice. She turns out the light, and very quietly moves to sit in the chair beside him.

"Are you all right?" she asks gently.

Hearing a strangled sound coming from him, she turns towards him. When she notices tears streaming down his cheeks, she does the only thing she knows how to do. She reaches out to comfort him, placing her hand in the middle of his back. Her touch is light, but she can feel the vibration in his body as he desperately struggles to hold onto his control.

She then does something she hasn't done since she was about twelve. With her hand still resting on his back, she rests her head on his shoulder. She suddenly feels incredibly safe with this distressed and troubled man, the man she calls `Dad', but with whom she is only recently becoming acquainted. "Talk to me, Dad," she says quietly, rubbing his back with her hand.

It is some minutes before Harry is calm enough to speak. He emits several deep sighs, and then blows his nose with a handkerchief he draws from his trouser pocket. Catherine feels his body calming, and with each deep breath he takes, his breathing also steadies, so that when eventually he speaks, his voice is mellow and firm once more.

"You must understand that I can't tell you everything," he begins.

"I know that. Just tell me the important bits."

"It's all important, but some bits are more important than others." Again Harry wipes his nose with his handkerchief before he continues with his story ... Ruth's story. "The woman whose funeral I attended wasn't Ruth. Malcolm uncovered communications between ... several people in the Home Office who conspired to have her leave the UK - alive - with the hope that knowledge of her `death' would trigger a breakdown in me, or perhaps even an angry .. response ... giving them an excuse to force my early retirement."

"But ... wasn't Ruth declared dead at the site of her stabbing?"

"It appears that she went into shock, and her condition was mistakenly assumed to be ..."

"So, she never was dead."

"So the official medical report states."

Harry then sits up, forcing Catherine to remove her head from his shoulder, but she keeps her hand on his back. "Can you fill me in on the reasons this might have been done? Was it done to punish you? To get rid of Ruth?"

Again Harry sighs, more a relieved sigh than one of pain. "Perhaps both. I know I said I'd not name names, but these ... psychopaths require naming. They've broken every code of honour there is, as well as the law of the land, so the code of secrecy no longer applies to them. They operate according to their own rules."

"So why send Ruth away? Why not just ... I don't know, find a position for her in Scotland?"

Harry turns then and smiles at Catherine. She sees the puffiness in his eyes, and finds it impossible to imagine her father crying. Her mother had brought her up to believe that he had no emotions to speak of. Clearly her mother had been wrong.

"The JIC - the Joint Intelligence Committee - is an organisation which operates on behalf of all intelligence in the UK. Some of the members of this group - to which I belong - are not happy with me. I recommend softer options than what they consider reasonable, and I continually vote against their combined wishes. They believe that torture has a place in our society, while I ..." Harry sighs heavily, his fingers fiddling with the cover of the folder. "They see me as past it - a product of another time -"

"And are you?"

Again, Harry turns to look into Catherine's eyes. It is almost dark, and both have adjusted to the limited light available. They both startle as a hissing through the pipes tells them that the heating had just turned up another notch, the sign that it's five o'clock.

"We could do with some light," Harry says distractedly, standing and heading into the living room, where he switches on the standard lamp beside the sofa, which provides just enough light, but without the glare of an overhead light.

"As to your question," Harry continues, once he is again seated beside Catherine, "it's clear that I am. There are some who view me as a dinosaur because I believe in the law of the land, an approach which has - somehow - become unfashionable and ... irrelevant. Once I retire - which I now plan to do - things are bound to change. The hard-liners will get their way, and they'll feel justified implementing actions which I find unpalatable. But the irony is that only moments before Ruth was stabbed, I'd agreed to leave the service with her, and live with her in a cottage she was about to buy. Had they left us alone, we'd both have left the service by now, and none of this would have been necessary."

"That's appalling," Catherine comments quietly, but with suppressed passion, "but why send Ruth away?"

"That's the most interesting of all. There's an analyst who works for the JIO - the Joint Intelligence Organisation, which produces assessments on behalf of the JIC - his name is Dexter Hoult." Harry shuffles through the photographs to draw out the image of the man with the receding dark hair and long nose. "If I ever see this face again, I'll have to punch it," he says with barely masked belligerence.

"He'll be lining up behind Fabian," Catherine says quietly, and again Harry smiles. Two smiles in less than fifteen minutes; that has to be a record.

"This man," Harry continues, lifting the photograph of Dexter Hoult, and clenching his teeth as he speaks, "is the reason Ruth is somewhere outside this country, and I have no idea where. In 2003 he applied for the job of analyst in Section D, and I appointed Ruth, and then when he heard that the Home Secretary was looking to appoint someone to coordinate all analysis across the intelligence service. Hoult pushed himself forward for the job, but the Home Secretary had already offered the job to Ruth. Thus, Hoult ..."

".. had an axe to grind," Catherine finishes for him.

"Yes. He did. During the past few years he has gathered a kind of .. following - people who are prepared to back him should some .. accident befall Ruth."

"By `accident' you mean ... the attack on her was planned?"

"Possibly, although after the fact, it's impossible to tell."

"This Dexter guy," Catherine adds, waving a finger in the general direction of Hoult's photograph, "would _hurt_ Ruth ... for a _job_?" When Harry nods, she continues. "So the intelligence community is a bit like the Wild West?"

"I find that analogy rather apt, Catherine."

"But is he any good as an analyst?" she asks.

"I've no idea, but no-one is a better analyst than Ruth."

"Maybe," Catherine begins, "this piece of filth -" and again she points at Hoult's photograph, "may still have tried to get at Ruth even had you both retired from the service."

Harry nods, although he's clearly not convinced. "I suspect the Home Secretary had little say in any of this," and suddenly Harry leans forward, grasping some sheets of paper which were in the original file left by Malcolm, "and it appears he's been put under excess pressure."

With Harry occupied by the notes made by Malcolm, Catherine stands and announces she's about to prepare dinner, and does Harry have any preferences. "Perhaps you can turn the light on, love," is all he has to say, as he peruses the page in front of him.

* * *

Catherine cooks pasta, and opens a jar of ready made sauce, mixing it with the pasta, adding a layer of grated cheese, and then placing it in the oven to bake for a while. She sets the timer, and then prepares a tossed green salad, which she places in the middle of the table before sitting down, this time on the chair opposite Harry. He is wearing his reading glasses, the wire rims making him look more academic than he'd like, while he furiously writes notes. Catherine watches him, wondering whether he'll even take time out to eat, when he sits back, clearly satisfied with himself.

He lifts his eyes to Catherine, giving her one of his long stares. "You'd never guess what is hidden in the midst of this lot," he says, waving towards the many sheets of paper, now arranged in tidy piles. When she shakes her head he again gives her direct eye contact. "It appears that on a recent trip to Washington DC, our esteemed Home Secretary was wined and dined by a group of CIA slime balls, plied with too much alcohol, introduced to some women - _very young_ women - filmed while he was occupied with said women, and then when he baulked at the suggestion he identify the body of a homeless woman as Ruth, he was reminded that the film of his exploits just might get into the wrong hands."

"So he was blackmailed," Catherine says quietly, surprised by how calmly her father is taking the news.

"He was. I almost feel sorry for him."

"I don't," Catherine murmurs. "The man's clearly a shit-bag," she adds bluntly.

She watches her father as he gathers all the notes, puts them in order, and returns them to the folder. Then he takes his own notes and glances quickly through them. "I might give Malcolm a quick call," Harry says, as if he hadn't heard her assessment of William Towers. "I suspect he'll have some idea who it is knows where Ruth might be."

"My vote's with the Home Secretary," she says bluntly. "He's the one with the most to lose, and every way you look at this, he's at the centre."

Harry quickly lifts his eyes to hers. "You'd make a fine analyst yourself," he says, smiling at her with parental pride.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: This story is about to move a little quicker, pushing the plot along. Thanks to you all for reading, and the reviews.**_

* * *

"Are you sure you won't stay a little longer?" Harry asks Catherine, who is stuffing her clothes into her overnight bag.

"I came here with the intention of staying for a couple of nights, and ended up staying four weeks."

"So that's a no, then."

Catherine looks up at Harry, who is leaning against the door frame, his arms folded. For a moment in time no longer than a heartbeat she can comprehend how it is a younger woman might find him attractive, but she doesn't linger on that thought, flicking it away as she would a speck of dust on her clothing. "As tempted as I am, Dad, I can't spare any more time away from London."

"You can stay here, and work from here."

"Like you need a third person in the house when you bring Ruth home."

"I haven't found her yet."

Catherine stands and watches Harry closely. "But you will .. won't you?"

"I believe she won't have gone far. She'll most likely be somewhere in western Europe, and as you suggested, there are people in high places who probably know where she is."

"And if she's not where they say she is?"

"I'll keep looking. The one thing I have on my side is time."

Catherine feels sad at having to leave her father on his own. As solitary as he has become, he is a man who needs company. He needs someone in his life. He enjoys conversation, debate, and especially a good argument, and she's sure he's still young and healthy enough to enjoy other things.

"Promise me one thing, Catherine." She frowns at him. Promising her father anything at all is fraught with a possible web of obligations, most of them undesirable. "Please don't get involved with anyone too quickly. You have plenty of time, and you deserve the best."

"Thank you for that, but I've decided to remain single for the rest of my life."

Harry's face relaxes into a broad grin, and he chuckles quietly. "I'll remind you of that when I'm walking you down the aisle."

"There's no way I'm ever having a church wedding, so I can spare you that particular ordeal."

"But you'll not be remaining single. Your mother wants grandchildren."

"Don't remind me. She never says anything, but I know what she's thinking. I can read it in her eyes. She even suggested I beg Fabian to take me back. Can you believe that?"

Harry can believe anything about his ex-wife.

Twenty minutes later Harry waves Catherine goodbye as she drives away. As much as he will miss her, he has much to do. He hadn't shared with Catherine that his first stop is to be London.

* * *

Two days later Harry drives to Ipswich and takes the train to London, meeting the Home Secretary in a small restaurant in the shadow of the Barbican Centre.

"Harry," Towers says cheerily, as Harry approaches the table. In his peripheral vision Harry recognises three of William Towers' personal security staff - one leaning on the bar, but with a comprehensive view of the restaurant reflected in the mirror behind the bar, and a man and a woman sitting two tables away, discussing the menu while appearing to ignore the man they are protecting.

"Home Secretary," Harry replies, his professional smile in place as he shakes Towers' hand, before he sits in the chair indicated. Harry is surprised, but not displeased, that they are meeting in a public restaurant, rather than at the club frequented by most senior members of the intelligence service. He can never again visit that club without remembering how he'd glassed Oliver Mace, and only days later, Ruth had left the country and his life for almost three years. Oliver Mace. Now, there's a name which conjures up memories, none of them good. Fortunately for him, Mace is still on the continent, waiting for an invitation back to London. Harry also suspects that the man still has influence with some members of the JIC.

"I've already ordered for us both," Towers says, as Harry makes himself comfortable. Of course he has. Towers has to demonstrate superiority and control, especially now that he knows that Harry knows that Towers has weaknesses like any other man. Even a man in high places has an Achilles heel, and if he doesn't, one can be created to suit. Towers' enjoyment of a drink or seven at the end of the day had been exploited by those who required his cooperation.

While they are waiting for their meal to be delivered to their table they exchange pleasantries. Harry knows Towers would rather be almost anywhere other than sharing a meal with him, and he would like to get to the reason they are here.

"I'm supposing you are wanting to know why it was I kept Ruth's .. condition, and then her whereabouts from you all this time," Towers begins.

 _Condition._ What a strange word to use to describe Ruth's state of still living and breathing. "I had wondered," Harry says, slicing through the fillet of veal.

"I had little choice, Harry. I've known for some time what she means to you, but there was a consensus that you be kept out of the decision-making loop."

Harry glares across the table at the man, not believing a word he's saying. "I do have an idea about why you decided to go along with the group decision," he says quietly, his eyes on Towers, who visibly squirms in his chair. "The reason I agreed to see you today is chiefly to discover Ruth's whereabouts. I need to find her and bring her home."

"Quite." Towers lifts his eyes to the waiter who hovers with a fresh bottle of wine. "No more for me," he says before turning to Harry. "I have a meeting with the US Ambassador this afternoon. It'll not go down well if he suspects I'm squiffy."

Harry smiles a teeth-only smile, but his eyes are cold. Chances are that being Friday afternoon, the US Ambassador will be three sheets to the wind himself, and wouldn't notice if the UK Home Secretary were also well on the way to joining him.

"I wanted to see you to offer my apologies," Towers says, leaning a little forward, perhaps in an attempt at sincerity. "I know it probably doesn't mean a lot now, but in retrospect, I did the wrong thing when I kept the truth about Ruth from you."

Harry has eaten all he can, and pushes his plate away, the veal only half eaten. Since he'd believed Ruth had died he'd lost interest in his usual appetites, including food, and he'll need to see her and touch her before he can again eat a proper meal. "Do you have an address for Ruth?" he asks at last, ignoring the man's apology, which is more practised than sincere.

"Of course. Of course," and Towers reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and draws out a card a little larger than a business card. "This is the address she sent me three months ago, and I have not heard anything further since then."

Harry takes the card, glancing at it to see the word, `Pisa'. Italy. He'd expected her to be in Greece, but he has little idea why he thinks that. He wants to ask why it was Ruth hadn't thought to contact him directly, but perhaps William Towers is not the right person to be asking. He'd rather wait until he sees Ruth.

Five minutes later, Harry leaves the restaurant, leaving a relieved William Towers sitting alone at the table, staring unseeing across the restaurant, knowing Harry Pearce had let him off rather lightly. He considers himself lucky that he'd been spared a public scene. Had Harry made a fuss, and the press got wind of it, his days as high ranking member of Cabinet would be numbered. His appetite has suddenly left him, so he glances at his security detail, tipping his head towards the door through which Harry had just left, his sign that it is time for the four of them to leave.

* * *

There is so much more to Pisa than the Leaning Tower, or the marble cathedral - the Pisa Duomo. Early in their marriage, in an effort to make up to Jane for some transgression or other, Harry had taken her to Italy, where they'd visited first Florence, and then Pisa. On their second night in Pisa they'd had a terrible row. He no longer remembers the details, but the names of several other women were mentioned, and his reluctance to take her seriously had only fueled Jane's rage. They had left Pisa, having stayed only two nights of the five they'd booked, and he'd not returned to the city since. He regrets the insensitivity and selfishness of his younger self, although he and Jane were never destined for a long marriage.

So it is with surprise that Harry finds he feels at home in Pisa, the buildings which surround the modernised hotel all possessing that ancient, timeless quality he loves. There appears to be more people on the streets, and he recognises accents and languages from every corner of the world. When he hears an American voice calling "Harry," he quickly turns to see a woman calling to a boy of around eight, who is dawdling behind her.

He books into his hotel, and then, given it is only mid afternoon, he heads off on foot to the address given him by William Towers. From the map of this section of the city, he has estimated the walk should take him no more than forty minutes, but by the time he enters the street where Ruth was known to be living three months earlier, over an hour has passed, and despite the day being overcast and mild, he is tired and hot. He has removed his lightweight jacket, and has it slung over one shoulder, his thumb hooked under the collar.

He has to negotiate several pavement cafes, as well as numerous groups of people who think nothing of blocking the pavement while they conduct conversations in rapidly spoken Italian, so that he has to step onto the street to get past them. When he reaches number 27, he stops and looks up at an ochre-coloured building of three storeys. He takes a deep breath, and then pushes open the door. Inside is a dark and shabby lobby, and beside the door on the other side of the lobby are eight intercoms. Harry lifts his hand to the button next to Number 6, surprised to note that his fingers are shaking. He is not conscious of being afraid, or even nervous. All he wants is to see Ruth.

He is surprised when his call is answered. He hears a click before a male voice says, " _Entra_."

Harry's Italian is not fluent, but he can get by. He doesn't even question why it is a man is in Ruth's flat. She'd lived with a man while in exile, so he can't expect her to have lived without male company, although he'd much prefer that she had.

He takes the stairs two at a time, and reaching the door to Number 6 flat, he is about to knock when the door opens. Standing in the doorway is the occupant of the flat, the flat in which he had been led to believe Ruth has been living.

But the person standing and smiling at him isn't Ruth. It is a man of forty or so; a man with tanned skin, floppy brown hair, and laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. "Ah .. it's you," the man says, and Harry is surprised when he stands aside and tips his head to invite Harry inside. "You'd best come in," he continues in perfect English, and Harry determines from his accent that he is from the south-west of England.

Harry hesitates. "But you don't know me," he says.

"I know, but I know who you are," the man says, ushering Harry inside before he closes the door behind them. "I'm Ian. Ian Swain."

"I'm Harry -"

"I know," Ian says, smiling. "I've been expecting you."


	7. Chapter 7

Pisa - Italy:

Harry looks around him, and sees a large, wood-paneled room with a high ceiling. It's what his mother would have called an `everything room'. Everything is in the one room - a tiny kitchen, a large dining table and chairs, while a sofa and two comfy chairs huddle in front of a television. A desktop computer and a laptop jockey for space on a narrow wooden desk, and tucked away in one dark corner of the room is a double bed. Covering two walls are bookshelves, along with several cupboards with wooden doors.

Harry can't quite absorb the full meaning of what he's seeing. He had expected either Ruth to answer the door, or the door would remain unanswered because Ruth is out, possibly at work. The man, Ian, and the double bed in the corner suggests that Ruth may be living with this man. If so, then he'd best leave immediately.

"I'm sorry," he says, suddenly embarrassed, and hurt, and more than a little angry, "I shouldn't have come."

When Ian lays a hand on his forearm, Harry moves to shrug it off. "Ruth's not here," Ian says quietly, his grasp of Harry's arm firm, but not so much that Harry feels restrained.

"I can see that. I should go," Harry adds, quickly turning to face this man who seems to know Ruth well, perhaps too well.

"No, Harry, you don't understand. She lived here until four weeks ago, when I offered to take over the lease. She left with me a photograph of someone called Harry whom she hoped would come looking for her." Harry remains standing just inside the closed front door while Ian quickly weaves his way across the room to the desk, where from beneath a pile of books he takes a sheet of paper. "She only had one photograph of you, and since she wasn't about to part with it, I asked her to scan it into my computer for me to print it .. so I could recognise you when you turned up ... _if_ you turned up." It's clear to Harry that Ian is a talker, so he'd best curb his temper, hold his tongue, and listen. He's not the one in charge here. "She described you to me, saying that if you turned up looking for her, I should send you on. From the verbal description she gave me, you could have been William Hague." _God forbid that I should be mistaken for a bloody politician_ , _and a Tory life peer at that,_ Harry thinks. "I insisted she make me a copy of the photograph of you she carries with her," Ian continues, unaware that Harry has reacted to his explanation. Ruth carries a picture of him with her? Harry wonders does Ruth know that he also carries a picture of her, tucked behind his security services ID inside his wallet, and that each night he takes it from his wallet and gazes at it as he lies alone under the duvet. Everywhere he goes he takes that small photograph of Ruth, worn from his regular checking to determine whether his mental image of her still matches the image captured by the camera. His biggest fear has been that he would forget the details of her face, the memory of her features fading as surely as the photograph he has of her must fade with time.

Harry snaps out of his reverie, noticing that Ian has thrust the copied image of his face towards him. He takes it from Ian's fingers, turning it to see an enlarged image of himself, one he recognises from the first Grid Christmas party after Ruth's return from exile. It is rather an apt image; most of his face is set in a frown, while his mouth is softened by something (or someone) at whom he is gazing beyond the lens. He remembers the moment clearly. Ruth had been standing behind Tariq's shoulder while the young technical officer had aimed the camera in his general direction, and she was saying, "Come on, Harry, smile," and he had refused to smile, but something in her eyes had softened his frown.

"I hadn't known she had this picture," he says quietly.

"People go to great lengths for those they love," Ian says gently, suddenly serious. "You look like you could do with a drink," he says, breaking the moment. "Beer or water? I'm out of coffee."

Harry hesitates. He'd love a beer, but perhaps a water would be the more sensible option. "A water would be fine. A large glass if you have one."

"A large glass of water coming up," Ian says, turning to make his way through the furniture to the kitchen area, where he pours two glasses of water, and places them on the dining table. "Sit down, Harry. I have much to tell you."

Harry sits, and downs the water all in one go, so Ian pours him another, again sitting at the table across from Harry, watching him closely while he gulps from the second glass. "Tell me, Ian," Harry begins, having drunk around a third of the water in the second glass, "has Ruth been hiding something from me? Is there something she doesn't want me to know?"

"Like what?"

"It's a simple enough question." Harry thinks his implication is obvious, although perhaps too obscure for this man to detect. To his mind, Ruth could be hiding a myriad of things from him, not the least of which could be a pregnancy. Their one night together had been spontaneous and unexpected, and the need for precautions hadn't crossed their minds.

"Apart from her whereabouts, no."

Harry notices Ian's Adam's apple bob as he swallows. Harry drops his eyes. He has to be careful to not frighten the man; after all, he'd invited him into his home, and had been friendly and cooperative. It's just that he doesn't know this man, and his presence here in Ruth's flat appears too contrived, too convenient. For a moment Harry entertains the idea that this man has killed Ruth, buried her somewhere, and is drawing him into his own private fantasy of `Kill the woman, then her lover.' He shakes his head to clear the image, unlikely at best. Perhaps the long walk has affected his ability to reason.

"It's just that her disappearance was out of character for her," he says at last, lifting his eyes to Ian, who is watching him, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. In all probability Ian has similar concerns about him!

Ian hesitates before answering. "I'd already surmised that you and Ruth are involved in some way with intelligence. I don't know the details, and I don't need to know, but I've known Ruth since childhood, when my family moved to Exeter. Our house was next door but one from hers, and we'd play together, along with the other kids in the street. We attended the same primary school, although I was a class behind her." As he'd been speaking of his and Ruth's shared past Ian's eyes had been on his drinking glass, but suddenly he looks up into Harry's eyes. "I feel that I know Ruth well, although I hadn't seen a lot of her in recent years. Around three months ago we ran into one another. She was friends with my girlfriend - now my ex-girlfriend, which is why I needed somewhere to stay, and why it is she offered me this flat."

"So she was planning to leave Pisa?"

"I've no idea. Above everything else, Ruth is one of the kindest people I know. She let me sleep on that bed in the corner until she was ready to move on. Her room was," and his eyes move to something behind Harry, "through that door. I never went in there. We were not involved with one another ... if that is what worries you."

It isn't, but Harry doesn't say so. "Where is she now?" he asks, frustrated by not knowing what has happened to Ruth. "I need to see her."

"I know. The truth is, I'm not sure where she is exactly, although she assured me she was headed to Lucca. It's inland from here, around fifteen kilometres or so to the north-east. I'd suggest you hire a car, but you might have trouble getting one at such short notice, so .. why don't you borrow mine? It's easier for me to take public transport to work."

Harry sits back in his chair, expelling his breath all at once. Why would this man loan his car to a complete stranger?

"It's fine," Ian assures him, immediately understanding his hesitance. "I hardly use it, and even though I've just met you, and you clearly don't trust me - and why should you? - I can see that you care about Ruth, and that's good enough for me."

Ian suddenly rises from his chair, and again heads to the desk, where he opens his laptop, wakes it up, and then scrolls through his file manager until he opens a file. He takes a pen and scrap paper and scribbles something on it. "This is all I have to go on," he says, returning to the table and pushing the paper towards Harry. "That's the cafe in the Piazza dell'Anfiteatro in Lucca which is run by a friend of Ruth's, and where she was hoping to find work. The woman's name is Agnes Bendt. She's German, but also speaks fluent English and Italian. To be honest, Harry, I'm worried about her. She should have contacted me before this."

Harry can see the worry on Ian's face, and so has no reason to doubt his sincerity. "Why don't you ring her? Surely she has a phone."

Ian's eyes turn quickly towards the desk. "She left her phone in the drawer of the desk. She promised to get another pay as you go in Lucca, so as you can see, short of driving to Lucca and looking for her, I have no way of contacting her."

Given Lucca is only fifteen kilometres away, Harry can't see why not, and as if he can read Harry's mind, Ian explains his decision. "Ruth was sure that once her six months here was up you'd want to see her, and I figured she'd rather you be the one to find her ... wherever she is. I've been waiting for you to turn up, and if you hadn't arrived by the weekend I was planning to drive to Lucca in search of her."

Harry isn't about to share with this man that until quite recently he'd believed Ruth to be dead. "So, why wait so long? Why didn't you go earlier?"

Ian shrugs his shoulders and smiles. "Up until last week I was flat out with work. Besides .. I didn't want to create a fuss around her whereabouts. Ruth hates being a nuisance, and more than anything she hates putting people out. She'd have been embarrassed had I looked her up any earlier than now. I also suspect that she needed to get away on her own for a while. You must know what she's like, Harry."

This time Harry is the one whose face breaks into a reluctant smile. Of course he knows what Ruth is like. She'd never want to inconvenience anyone, or for others to be making a fuss about her. Even so, there is a small, but perceptible knot of worry in his stomach which refuses to go away.


	8. Chapter 8

The following day - mid morning:

Harry strolls through the old Roman walled sector in the north-eastern corner of Lucca, the streets too narrow for parking, other than by those who live and work within the walls. As he'd driven towards the ancient town in Ian Swain's Fiat 500 rain had fallen, but on reaching the outskirts of Lucca the clouds had parted to reveal a warm spring sun. Harry had smiled, wondering had Divine Intervention led him to Ian Swain, and then to this beautiful town which dates back to the Romans in 180 BC. The Piazza dell'Anfiteatro is in the centre of the walled part of the city, and according to Ian, remnants of the Roman amphitheatre can be seen surrounding the open area between the buildings.

Harry has given little thought to the possibility that Ruth may not be here, and that what she had told Ian had not been the truth. It's possible that she's already on a flight to somewhere else; maybe she's already on her way home to the UK. Ian had several times mentioned the time frame of six months, so it appears to Harry that her time in Italy was always going to be finite.

He has not even considered the possibility that Ruth might not want to see him. He cannot believe that she would not want to revisit their encounter on the night before the CIA had taken him into custody. It had been at once both sweet and delicate, as well as unbearably sad. How like him and Ruth to wait until they were about to be parted, perhaps forever, before they agreed to spend a night together. He cannot imagine that Ruth has moved on, and no longer wants to be with him. That night has been etched into his memory, precious and unforgettable, and he is certain it had been just as important to her.

So it is with a renewed sense of optimism that Harry strides through the ancient streets towards the piazza which had once been a Roman amphitheatre. The old Piazza is astounding, and as Harry steps from the access lane between the buildings into the light he finds himself almost breathless with awe. Scattered around the edge of the piazza, nestled in the shadows of the ancient buildings which have protected this space for centuries, are cafes and market stalls. All Harry knows is that Agnes Bendt's cafe is called _Caffe Sciarpa di Seta,_ the Cafe of the Silk Scarf _._ He strolls around the perimeter of the piazza, noting the names of the stalls and cafes. When he sees the name of Agnes' cafe painted above a doorway, outside which a half dozen tables are all occupied, protected from the sun and rain by umbrellas, Harry's heart begins thumping, the blood thundering in his ears.

He steps through the doorway into a narrow room, along one side of which is a counter and service area. Inside, the cafe is all but empty, so he sits at a small table at the front of the room, breathing out his rising anxiety. He is here at last, and hopefully Ruth is not far away.

He barely has time to take in his surroundings when a blond-haired woman in her mid to late forties appears beside him, asking to take his order. Given his Italian is not fluent, he orders in English, ending with the question, "Are you Agnes?"

"I am," she says, her words spoken in the sharp and clipped tones of one whose native tongue is German.

"I'm here to see Ruth Norman," he says quietly, so only Agnes can hear him.

"I have no idea who you mean," she says, feigning disinterest before walking away.

Harry is trained in reading people, and the flicker of recognition when he'd mentioned Ruth's name tells him everything he needs to know. He quickly stands and follows her to the far end of the counter, where she hands Harry's order to the young man at the coffee machine.

"I'm Harry," he says, leaning close to Agnes' ear. "Harry Pearce."

Agnes turns quickly, and Harry takes a step away from her, out of her personal space. "You should have said so when you ordered," she says bluntly. "Follow me," she adds, but then gives the young man a further order in Italian. Harry hadn't caught it all, but it sounded like he'd instructed the man to deliver two coffees to the back room.

Harry follows Agnes through the cafe, past several empty tables, and then through a door which opens onto a corridor. She opens the first door on the right, and flicks her eyes in an invitation to him to follow her through the door. Harry is led into a jarringly modern sitting room, where Agnes takes one comfortably upholstered chair, and indicates that Harry should take the other. Between them is a glass-topped chrome coffee table, over which they each stare at one another, their assessment of each other only ending when the door is opened, and the young man from the cafe enters, a coffee in each hand.

" _Grazie,_ Enrico," Agnes says to the young man. "My son," Agnes explains once the door closes behind him. "Everyone who works here must speak Italian, English and German, and some French is desirable also. Enrico has studied all four languages at university, so he works for me part time, while he decides what to do with the rest of his life."

When Agnes leans forward to take her cup of coffee, Harry understands that he should do the same. As expected, the coffee is strong and hot. "You have something to tell me about Ruth," he says, hoping to kick start a conversation.

"My cafe is named for the silk trade which ten centuries ago made this region prosperous. Can you believe that? All this -" and she indicates their surroundings, "from a moth. My former mother-in-law chose the name. It was her cafe long before I arrived. Her son, my former husband, works here with me each afternoon, and in the mornings he works on his family's farm." Harry knows that were he to attempt to draw the woman back to the subject of Ruth she would most likely respond with irritation, so he waits patiently, paying close attention to all she says. "I know you are in the intelligence service. I am former BND, and I came to Lucca on an operation, and this is when I met Pietro. He and I should never have become lovers, but we have Enrico, and that has made our poor judgement worth it." Harry has received the news that she was once German Intelligence with not even a flicker of his eyes. It should hardly surprise him. Everything she is telling him is leading them somewhere significant. "It was through Mara - Pietro's mother - who was Italian intelligence, that I met Pietro, and like me, she retired from intelligence long ago. She now lives quietly on the family farm, occasionally taking in lodgers - people like Ruth, who require a safe place to stay."

Agnes places her coffee cup on the table, having only taken a couple of sips, and turns in her chair to face Harry.

"Ruth told me a little about you, and that you may be arriving here in search of her. I am not a believer in true love, but I am happy when it motivates others to do the unimaginable." Again Agnes waits, watching Harry closely. Of course, Harry can match her in the staring department. He is capable of out-staring the very best of them. "Ruth is no longer in Lucca," she says, breaking eye contact, "but she is not far away. Pietro's family farm is only ten kilometres out of town - to the north-east - and I can give you directions."

Harry feels his body relax as he lets go of the breath he'd been holding. "She's safe and well?" he asks hopefully.

"Of course. Mara may have once been in intelligence, but she is a good cook. There's no problem can't be solved with a well-cooked pasta." Although he knows Agnes is deadly serious, her aphorism brings a small smile to his lips.

* * *

The family farm of Pietro Marafino and his mother, Mara, nestles between gentle hills, reminding Harry of a baby settled comfortably in its mother's arms. Like many buildings in and around Lucca, the farmhouse blends with the environment like it grew from the soil fully formed. It is not a glamorous house, and appears a little run down. Compared with other farm houses he'd passed on his way from Lucca, this house is shabby. Harry turns off the Fiat's motor and watches for signs of human habitation. The front door is closed, and there are no vehicles in the yard. A medium-sized dog with sleek black fur trots slowly towards the car, watching him with intelligent eyes, waiting for him to move. _Well, here goes,_ he thinks. _Time to show myself._ Slowly he steps from the car, his movements careful and fluid. Both he and the dog stand still as they each watch the other.

" _Benito_ ," calls a voice from the driveway beside the house, and Harry lifts his eyes to see a woman of medium height and a straight back, her grey hair drawn behind her head in a bun, her bright dark eyes trained on him. As she slowly approaches Harry, the dog's tail wags, but other than that he is still. "You must be Harry," the woman says in heavily accented English. "Agnes called to let me know you were on your way," and she makes a gesture of holding a phone to her right ear. "There is someone here who is looking forward to seeing you," and she turns towards the front door of the house as it opens to reveal a woman with brown hair, dressed in a man's white shirt hanging over a blue skirt.

The woman is Ruth, and Harry feels tears building, and then rolling down his cheeks. Until this moment he had not truly believed that she still lived and breathed. He longs to run to her and wrap his arms around her, but he is stuck to the spot, swallowing the tears which threaten to overwhelm him. He has waited such a long time for this moment, and now it is here, he is unable to act. He is relieved when she walks towards him, although her steps are slow, and her demeanor wary. He notices that she wears brown leather sandals over bare feet. She blends into her environment like she belongs here, the goddess _Fauna_ incarnate.

"Harry," she says quietly, reverently, as she nears him. Neither notice that Mara has disappeared down the driveway, affording them the privacy they require.

"Ruth," he says, taking several small steps towards her. Harry doesn't quite know what to do. He is hoping Ruth will show him the way. His eyes never leave her face, and her eyes never leave his.

When she is close enough for him to touch her he reaches out with one hand to touch her cheek, marvelling at how soft is her skin as his fingertips travel from her cheek over her cheekbone to the corner of her eye, where a tear hovers, about to fall. It is when he strokes the tear away that Ruth steps closer, close enough for him to feel the heat from her body. "Please hold me," she whispers, her eyes pleading.

So he quickly wraps his arms around her, drawing her against him. He feels her arms slide around him, her fingertips pressing into the muscles of his back as she rests her head on his shoulder, sighing deeply as she relaxes against him. Harry presses his face into her hair and closes his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the body molded against his, her breasts and hips fitting snugly against him in that remembered way. It is suddenly all incredibly simple. This is where they both belong - with one another.

Benito the dog has turned away from them. There is nothing of interest for him here, so he follows his mistress down the driveway to the back of the house. Neither Harry nor Ruth notice him leave.


	9. Chapter 9

Twenty minutes later - inside Mara's house:

"Why name a dog after a World War Two dictator?" Harry asks as they sit at the large wooden table in the kitchen, mugs of hot coffee in front of them. Through the wide window above the sink Harry notices Mara wandering across the yard at the back of the house, Benito following her every move, and assumes she is being discreet.

"Mara told me the dog was named after her first husband, Pietro's father - who was _un cane_ \- a dog, according to Mara. I feel sorry for the dog, caught between Mussolini and an errant former husband."

Once they had greeted one another with a gentle kiss, Ruth had suggested he bring his overnight bag into the house. Harry had swallowed his emotion while he removed the bag from the car before following Ruth into the house. To lose sight of her so soon after their meeting was tempting a fate he hoped never to face again.

"I hadn't expected to be staying," he'd said, as he slid past her, overnight bag in hand.

"Mara insists, as do I," Ruth had countered. "I'm not quite ready to enter the real world, and I think we need a couple of days together to .. readjust."

Harry wasn't about to argue with that. Ruth had led him to a light-filled bedroom at the top of the house, where a large bed dominates the space. Above the bed a window is set into the slanted roof, providing a view of treetops and the clouds beyond. "So where's your room?" he'd asked lightly, hoping her bedroom wasn't too far away.

"This _is_ my room," she'd replied, watching him closely. "I thought .. presumed really, but if you think it's too soon, or .. inappropriate -"

"I don't," he'd said quickly, just so she'd stop talking. "I'm happy to share .. the room, and the bed, if that's what you were suggesting .."

"It was .. what I was suggesting ... what I wanted, actually .. what I want." Although her words had fallen from her lips in ragged, disconnected phrases, she had held his gaze the whole time, showing him a different side to her. The woman whose lips he'd kissed, believing her to have died, had been wary, tired, jaded, and equally as fed up as he had been with the intelligence service.

"Good." He'd smiled into her eyes, hoping to put her at ease. It's what he wants, what he craves, what he has dreamed of, ever since he'd learned that she had lived through the stabbing. After what they've both been through, sleeping in separate rooms is a sacrifice too far.

He's noticed a change in Ruth. She is careful around him, like she is waiting for something to happen, something unexpected. She talks less, and measures her words before she utters them, other than when she's nervous, as she'd clearly been when discussing their sleeping arrangements. Given she's been in hiding - effectively in exile - for six months, the subtle change in her personality is not surprising. But she can still hold his gaze in a way which has him looking away first.

Other than their emotional reunion, which had affected her as much as it had him, he has little idea where they stand in relation to one another, although the sharing of the room and the bed has provided him with a clue. He's not sure they can simply pick up where they'd left off, but he'll endeavour to meet her half way, and see where that leads them. While he'd always believed they had ample time in which to get closer, the injury she'd sustained at the Thames estuary had shown him that they had best grasp any and every opportunity offered them.

It is only since he'd learned that Ruth had survived the stabbing that Harry has allowed himself to revisit their one night together, the night before he'd been handed over to the CIA. He had lain beside her afterwards, his muscles like water, his skin moist with sweat, his cock inert and numb, while with the fingertips of one hand Ruth had caressed the skin of his stomach, her touch gentle, even delicate. He had longed to say something profound, something wise, something they'd both remember long into old age, but no words came. He'd been overwhelmed by their coupling, all the while grief stricken that in all probability their first act of loving would also be their last. He could never have imagined that in a few short months they would meet again, that he would be free, and Ruth would be alive. Put like that, and with their long and fraught history, they _need_ to spend their nights together in the large bed on the top floor. To remain apart would be a tragedy as deep as that of her death.

After they share coffee in the kitchen Ruth suggests a walk to the top of the rise behind the house. "From there you can see the whole farm," she explains, and so they set off together, Benito trotting along behind them at a safe distance. "He's taken a shine to me," Ruth explains, and Harry understands why. He has also taken a shine to Ruth. He cannot understand why anyone would not be mesmerised by her, lost in her eyes.

They reach the top of the rise, where before them, laid out in orderly fields, the rich, dark green of not-yet-ripe wheat lies to the left, and the olive orchard to the right. They watch as a sturdily built man with greying dark hair ambles from within the olive orchard towards an ancient lorry.

That's Pietro," Ruth explains. "He's finishing up for the day, and from here he'll drive into Lucca to help Agnes in the cafe."

"But they're divorced," Harry says, trying to imagine working each afternoon in a business with his ex-wife, and having difficult forming a coherent picture.

"They have Enrico in common, and this encourages them to get along. They're only working together .. nothing more."

"How can you be sure?" Harry gazes at Ruth's profile, seeing her lips turning in a half smile.

"I can't, but I'm just going by what Agnes has told me. Besides, she has a lover named Horst."

"How do you keep up with everyone's comings and goings?" Harry asks quietly.

Ruth's smile widens, and she turns to look into his eyes. "It has stopped me thinking about us ... about you, and whether you would come looking for me. If you hadn't, I don't know ..." and her voice trails off, and Harry can detect the words she is unable to say. Harry swallows his discomfort.

They are standing in the shade of a tree; Harry thinks it might be a wild olive, since it stands with three others at the crest of the hill, providing shade and protection. He is glad of the shadow masking his face. "Do you know why I didn't come looking for you until now?" he asks quietly.

"I assumed you were too busy, or the CIA had decided they wanted you after all."

He watches her closely. She appears to be telling the truth. "Neither of those are true, Ruth. The reason I hadn't searched for you was that in October, ten days after you were stabbed, I attended your funeral, and I have spent most of the time since then grieving your death. It was a while after I believed you'd died that I took leave from the service. Since I took leave I've been renting a cottage on the coast just north of Felixstowe."

While he has been speaking Harry has been gazing over the two fields of wheat, a light breeze creating a rippling across the surface of the crops, a sea of green. When he finishes, he turns to see Ruth staring up at him, her face showing shock. Since they'd greeted one another in the yard after he had arrived they haven't touched. He watches her while she swallows, her expression stricken, the sheen of tears in her eyes. "Tell me that isn't true," she says, her voice husky.

"It's true," he breathes. "I wish it wasn't, but it is." Then he quietly tells her of his sessions with Ken Henry, his strange and prophetic dreams about her, and then his meeting with William Towers.

"But ..." Ruth begins, "he told me - _assured_ me - that he'd let you know that I'd had to leave the country for a while, and that I'd be coming back."

"The reason you were given one story, Ruth, and I was given an entirely different story, was so that I would leave the service."

"But you won't leave ... will you?"

"I've already given notice." Harry's voice is quiet and calm. Even a week earlier he could never have told this story with such equanimity.

"But you can't."

"I can, and I have. I want to live what's left of my life without fearing for the lives of those I love, and if you'll have me, I'd rather like to live it with you." There. He'd said it. He'd just made a declaration of love and a proposal of marriage all in one sentence. He just hopes Ruth can read between the lines.

He cannot tell whether the message has reached her. She is standing very still, staring ahead of her, her face giving nothing away, her arms folded across her chest. Harry reaches out to touch her arm, but she pulls away. For a moment he thinks she is angry with him for not coming to look for her, but how could he when he'd believed her to be dead? "Ruth," he says gently, but while she uncrosses her arms, she turns away from him. Harry experiences a moment of panic. "Talk to me, Ruth," he says, his voice sterner than he'd intended.

"I can't .. say it. It's just ..." and she turns as if to walk away, back down the hill.

Taking a risk, Harry steps closer to her, longing to touch her, but he can't, just in case he makes things worse. He takes a deep breath. "Tell me, Ruth. What is it is so upsetting that you can't tell me?" He waits for a full minute, watching her, waiting. When at last she speaks, he barely hears her. "You'll have to repeat that."

Ruth turns to face him, and he reads the distress in her eyes. "I said ... I could have rung you ... around three weeks after I left. I wanted to. I still had the number of your mobile. I made the mistake of ringing Towers, asking him would it be all right if I talked to you. Those were his instructions." _I'll bet they were_ , Harry thinks, maintaining eye contact with her, but he is beginning to understand what has so upset her. "He suggested I not ring you because you were caught up in - and these were his words - `a very complex cleanup of the Russian situation'. When I asked him what he meant, he said that you were in Russia, and may be there for some weeks. He implied you shouldn't be disturbed."

"And you believed him," Harry breathes, swallowing the core of anger which is threatening to rise from deep in his gut. None of this is Ruth's doing. None of this is her fault.

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea. Had I known ..."

"I know, Ruth. You had no option other than to trust him."

"I should have just rung you, and to hell with what Towers thought."

Harry can't help but smile. "I would have passed out with shock had you rung me."

Ruth nods, breaking eye contact., gazing towards the fields of wheat, still, now that the breeze has dropped. "So you're not mad at me for not ringing you?"

"Of course not. Why would I be? Towers had better watch his back, though."

Following some primal instinct, some inner voice only he can hear, Harry reaches out to grasp Ruth's shoulders. When he feels her body soften at his touch, he slowly pulls her closer to him, until mercifully he feels her body relaxing against his own, until her head rests on his shoulder. He pulls her closer still, one of his hands circling her back, while with the other he gently cups the back of her head. He would dearly love to kiss her, bypassing the need for further conversation, but he senses she has more to tell him. "Tell me something," he says after a silence of several minutes, during which Benito the dog has drawn closer, and is resting in the shade of the tree only a couple of metres away, "when you left Pisa for Lucca, and then again when you left Lucca to come here, were you running from something?"

Ruth doesn't reply in words. He feels her body stiffen in his arms, and then relax, before her head moves against his shoulder. Ruth is nodding.


	10. Chapter 10

As Ruth pulls a little away from Harry, Benito the dog, attuned to Ruth as he is, sits up and watches them both, waiting for instructions from her.

"It's all right, Benito," she says gently, and so the dog again lays down, his face resting on his paws. "Can we walk?" she says to Harry, and he nods. "But I need you to take my hand."

Harry smiles. That sounds fine to him. He reaches out to take her hand as they, as if by prior agreement, walk down the hill towards the olive grove. Benito follows them at a respectful distance.

"There isn't much to see here yet," she explains. "Wheat harvest is at least two to three months away, and the olive harvest will be in five to six months. Over there," and she points towards a rectangular area two or three hundred metres away, behind the house, "Mara is working hard to nurse the grape vines back to health. They've been neglected for around a decade, so she goes out every day and digs and mulches around them, and picks off the brown leaves. I've even heard her talking to them. Pietro has promised to replace all the posts and wires before winter." Ruth looks up into Harry's eyes, and she smiles. He could walk to Russia and back with her were she to smile at him like that, although perhaps Russia is a poor choice of destination.

When they reach the edge of the olive grove Ruth stops, and turns towards Harry. "Are you all right to walk a bit more?" she asks, and when he nods, they stroll down one of the rows, while Ruth talks, her eyes on the ground. "Do you remember the promise we made to one another just before I was stabbed?" Of course he remembers, although he hadn't viewed their pact to leave the service together as a promise. To him, it had been an inevitable destination, somewhere they were headed together with similar certainty to the changes of season, or the rising and setting of the sun. He nods. "I was conscious of that promise, and determined to honour it. I took it very seriously. I still do." Again he nods, wondering where she is going with this.

Quite suddenly, Ruth pulls her hand from his grasp, and then turns away from him. Harry views her breaking contact with him to be a bad sign. "Ruth ... whatever it is, you can tell me."

She shakes her head. "I'm not sure I can." She hesitates, so that he sees how carefully she is considering what she is about to say. "You'll hate me for this," she says, her voice strained. She turns suddenly, and he can see the shame in her eyes.

"Nothing you say can make me hate you," he says so quietly that he barely hears his own words.

It is then that Ruth stares up at him defiantly. "Try this then. I slept with Ian Swain, although we didn't actually sleep together, as in spend the night together. We just had very mechanical and meaningless sex ... for old times' sake."

 _Is that all_? "He assured me that you were not involved, and that you had never been."

"Other than casual friendship, there is no involvement. We had the briefest of brief flings once when I visited my mother and step-father. It was just before I began working for Mi5, and Ian was teaching at a prep school in Exeter. It was convenient and - again - rather meaningless."

"Ruth .. I don't see why this is such a problem. Provided you're not about to rekindle anything with him, it's not an issue for me. He lied to me. He made a point of telling me you were not involved -"

"We're not involved. It was just sex."

"Then why the guilt, Ruth? Why even tell me? That doesn't make sense." Benito has found himself a spot in the shade just in front of Ruth, and he is gazing up at her adoringly. Harry finds himself smiling. While he'd rather Ruth hadn't had sex with Ian, it had happened, and that is that. To be angry about something over which he has no control is pointless. "Was it only the once?" he asks, immediately wishing he hadn't.

"Yes," Ruth replies wearily. "It wasn't something I wanted to happen again. The problem is ... Ian did. He became fixated on the idea that we should `give it a go'."

"So you escaped to Lucca."

"Not immediately." With the toe of her sandal Ruth rather distractedly strokes the fur along Benito's spine, while the dog lifts his head, panting heavily, his tongue lolling. "I thought we'd agreed that we should forget it ever happened, and then the next thing I knew he'd prepared a romantic dinner for us at the flat, and then he suggested he move into my bedroom. I've known Ian a long time, and so I wasn't afraid of him. I believed I just had to set clearer boundaries." Ruth lifts her eyes to Harry's, and his heart almost breaks to see the sadness there. This is meant to be a happy reunion; he doesn't want it being sullied by her memories of a would-be lover who wouldn't take the hint.

"And did you?"

"I rang Agnes, and she suggested I move to Lucca. She has a spare room in her flat above the shop. The trouble was I needed to leave your details with Ian, just in case you turned up. I needed to ensure Ian would send you in the right direction before I moved to Lucca. Fortunately, by the time I left Pisa, he'd moved beyond his obsession with me, but I still needed to get away from him ... just in case he .."

"So Agnes suggested you come here."

Ruth nods, looking up at him. "In the end, Ian was quite cooperative, but I still wasn't sure I could trust him. He was upset over his relationship breaking up, while I was upset that I hadn't heard from you. I was so afraid you'd .." and again Ruth turns away from him, staring through the thick foliage of the olive trees.

Harry takes a small step closer to her. "What, Ruth? What were you afraid of?"

She turns to face him then, lifting her eyes to his. "I was afraid you'd move on, believing I was just too much trouble."

Harry can no longer hold back. He steps to her side, sliding one arm around her so that he can turn her to face him. Then he pulls her closer to him, gazing down into her eyes. "Ruth ... you are _everything_ to me, and I would scour the world in search of you."

Reading doubt in her eyes, Harry knows that words do not necessarily convey all he wishes to say to her, so he slowly bends, and places a soft kiss on her lips. Feeling her lips parting beneath his he goes with it, taking the kiss further, until they are pressing their bodies together, their breath coming in gasps between quick, but fervent kisses. Feeling her fingers sliding between the buttons of his shirt to reach the skin of his chest, he shudders as her fingertips set his skin alight. His own hand is beneath her shirt, gliding back and forth across her back. As his fingers slide beneath the back of her bra he is tempted to undo the clasp, but manages to control the urge, while revelling in the softness of her bare skin, and the freedom to explore her body.

Harry is the one to bring it all to a halt. When she frowns up at him, he explains. "We have time, Ruth, and here - in the olive orchard - is not the most .. private of places. Besides .. we now have all the time in the world."

"I would have thought time is something we may not have." She's right, of course. He of all people should know that time may be against them. Ruth then lifts her face to his, a shy smile softening her features. "I'm hoping we can soon put that large bed to good use."

He nods before glancing across at the dog, who appears to have slept through both their fraught conversation and their desperate snog.

* * *

True to Agnes' word, Mara's gnocchi is worthy of a condemned man's final meal. Harry notices that Ruth picks at hers, while he discovers his appetite has returned, and so he leaves nothing on the plate, having soaked up the last of the mushroom sauce with a slice of homemade bread.

They eat to the gentle rhythm of Mara's voice, as she regales them with stories from her time in the Italian intelligence service, a time when messages were passed hand to hand, or through an unwitting intermediary. Ruth listens closely, while Harry has heard stories like this before. It all sounds terribly glamorous and exciting, but was still dangerous, and inconvenient, and often unproductive.

They sit over another glass of wine, and then Ruth makes coffee for the three of them. Harry can't take his mind from what will happen when he and Ruth climb the stairs to their bedroom in the attic. He can't wait. Over coffee he glances across the table to see her watching him, and when their eyes meet, she looks away, but not before he sees the blush on the skin of her throat. Ruth has already told him that both Mara and Pietro sleep on the ground floor, so their privacy is assured.

"Pietro is late," Ruth says, glancing at the clock on the microwave oven. It is almost ten-thirty, and during the quiet season the cafe closes at nine-thirty.

"He is," Mara agrees. "Maybe he and Enrico are having a drink together. They sometimes do."

No sooner has she finished speaking than they hear the rumble of a vehicle coming down the driveway. "That sounds like him now," Mara says.

They sit quietly, listening to the truck moving down the driveway to the back of the house, and then the sharp bang as the lorry door closes. Only seconds later there is a clang of metal on metal, and then Pietro's voice swearing in Italian.

Mara makes a scoffing sound at the back of her throat, and then mumbles, " _ubriaco come una scimmia_!"

Ruth laughs lightly. Harry knows she'd said something about a monkey, so he turns towards her for clarification.

"Mara says Pietro is `drunk as a monkey'," she says, smiling.

Less than a minute later Pietro staggers through the back door, but he is not drunk. He definitely appears to have been in a fight or an accident of some kind. His thick hair is awry, and on his forehead a prominent bump is already beginning to bruise. His bottom lip is cut, and there is a rather deep cut on his left cheekbone, which someone has tried to mend with a couple of steri-strips.

Seeing Pietro's confusion, Ruth quickly gets to her feet and holds out a chair for him at the table. "Sit down, Pietro," she says. "I'll get you a glass of water."

" _O mio Dio_ ," says Mara, placing her hands either side of her face. Then, once Pietro is sitting, she remembers that Harry has not yet met Pietro. "Harry ... this is my son, Pietro. Like his papa, he likes to fight."

For a moment there is silence while Pietro takes in his surroundings. Then, despite the pain he is in, he lifts his hands to show that his knuckles are also cut, although the cuts are filled with dried blood. "This night," he says in broken English, "I fight Englishman. Englishman bad. He lose. I win." Then he grins first at his mother, and then Ruth, who has placed a large glass of water on the table in front of him. Lastly, he nods towards Harry. "I Pietro," he says. "I brave man. I almost kill your enemy."


	11. Chapter 11

There is a long moment of silence while Mara, Ruth and Harry absorb what Pietro has just told them. He still sits at the table, a self-satisfied grin on his face. Then Mara and Ruth both talk at once, each asking him what he means - Mara in Italian, and Ruth in English. Harry, meanwhile, says nothing. He is seeing his and Ruth's first night together being usurped by this thug who seems to enjoy being the centre of attention.

"What is this man's name?" Harry asks quietly, hoping that Ian has stepped out of line and visited the cafe in Lucca.

Pietro gives a shrug, lifting both hands from the table. "Not know man's name. He ..." and Pietro looks around him, as though the man's name may be written somewhere in the kitchen. "He looking for Ruth, but ask for Harry. He maybe want to kill both. I stop him talking to Agnes. Man punch. I make bigger punch. Maybe more, can't remember."

Just then, Harry's mobile phone rings. "I'd better take this," he says to Ruth. "It's Agnes," and as he answers the call, he leaves the kitchen for the hallway.

With his back to the kitchen doorway, he doesn't notice Ruth following him towards the front door. Agnes' call is clear. A man called Dexter pushed his way into the cafe after closing time, demanding to speak to Ruth. What Agnes tells him is worrying, and he believes that he needs to deal with this man in person.

So much for his and Ruth's first night together in six months. Ending the call, he turns to see Ruth listening, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "You're going to Agnes' cafe, aren't you?"

He nods, closing the gap between them. "I have to, Ruth. It's Dexter Hoult. It seems that he found Ian, and managed to get Agnes' name and the address of her cafe from him. It appears that his next stop was about to be some ... persuasive measures on Agnes. Enrico was out with his girlfriend, and Hoult thought he had Agnes to himself. She would have creamed him, but Pietro was in the back room, and when he entered the cafe he did what he does best." Harry reaches out to run his knuckles across Ruth's cheek. "I'd like to be able to say I'll be back soon, but I can't make that promise."

"Just be careful," she says quietly, grasping his hand and bringing it to her lips, kissing the backs of his fingers, before holding his hand firmly between her hands, bringing it to rest between her breasts.

Her action almost breaks his resolve, and he is on the verge of saying, `to hell with Hoult', when he remembers that Pietro had entered into a fight which wasn't really his to be having. He _has_ to go. "I will," he assures Ruth, "and it's best you go to bed. I'll join you when I get home."

"I won't be able to sleep until I know you're all right."

"All I have to do is frighten him so much he'll be glad to return to London," Harry says, before he leans towards her and kisses her lightly. Ruth slides one hand around his neck and pulls him closer, kissing him hard, a kiss with fervour, a kiss with a message, a kiss filled with promise.

Reluctantly, Harry ends the kiss, then turns and disappears through the front door.

* * *

Inside the _Caffe Sciarpa di Seta_ it is clear that a fight has taken place there. Tables are overturned, chairs pushed against the wall, and broken crockery has been swept up, and pushed against one wall. Agnes leads him through the main room to a table at the back of the cafe, one which appears to have not been disturbed.

"Coffee?" she asks in her clipped voice, and Harry nods. He may as well.

Once they both have a cup of coffee in front of them, Agnes begins to give Harry a blow-by-blow description of Hoult's `visit', which had occurred just as she was closing the cafe.

"It was a quiet night, so I gave Enrico the night off, and he met his girlfriend in town for a drink. It was as I was about to lock the door that this man pushed his way in, demanding to know where you and Ruth were."

"Was he accompanied?"

"I didn't see anyone."

"Did he have a weapon .. a knife, a gun?"

Agnes shakes her head. "Only his powers of persuasion, which were considerable," she smiles, "but mine are better."

"Did he threaten you physically?"

"Of course, but I stood my ground. He's tall, but not terribly sturdy, more on the gangly side. Besides, I knew if I made enough noise, Pietro would come into the cafe to investigate. He was in the back room, tidying the coffees he and I had shared earlier." She sips her coffee, before replacing the cup in its saucer. "I was never worried for myself, but I was worried he might find Ruth. He seemed a bit ... unstable. The things he was saying didn't make sense. When Pietro entered the room, Dexter had his back to him. I could see Pietro in my peripheral vision, and when Pietro hits someone, they generally stay hit. Trouble is, Pietro doesn't know when to stop. One day he'll kill someone."

"He seems to enjoy fighting," Harry muses.

"He does. If you want to speak to the Englishman, he is in San Luca - the hospital. It's not far."

"You called an ambulance?" Harry asks, suddenly worried. If an ambulance was called, then the police would have been informed.

"Of course not. In my opinion this cowardly Englishman deserves to die. Fortunately, Enrico arrived home just as the fight finished, and he drove the man to hospital. I told Enrico to stay until he knows the man's condition. It is only a couple of kilometres. You can be there in ten to fifteen minutes."

* * *

When Harry reaches Hoult's hospital room the only person outside the room is Enrico.

"Perhaps you can go home now," Harry says to Enrico. "I'll look after him from here."

"You can kill him for all I care," Enrico says, standing and facing Harry. Enrico is a tall young man, and resembles his father, but without the heftiness of the middle-aged Pietro. Even Harry can see he is a handsome lad, as Pietro must once have been.

"My plan is to scare the shit out of him," Harry says quietly, as he gazes through the window in the door to Hoult's room. "You'd best make yourself scarce. It's best you not be implicated in any way."

Enrico nods and quickly leaves, while Harry glances around him before he pushes open the door, and quickly enters the room. He stands beside the bed to see that Hoult is quite badly injured, but is not hooked up to any machines, other than a drip. Harry almost feels sorry for him. Peitro had done a rather thorough job.

Hoult appears to be asleep, so Harry leans close to his ear and whispers, "Dexter, wake up. I heard you wanted to see me."

The man on the bed slowly opens his eyes, and appears disoriented, that is, until his eyes fall on Harry's face, which is wearing his nastiest smile. Hoult's eyes widen, and he opens his mouth as if he is about to call out, when Harry leans in closer, his face only inches from the face of the man on the bed. Determined to leave an impression, Harry places the palm of one hand over the man's throat, and presses lightly, and then with more pressure, until Hoult makes as if to scream.

"If you go anywhere near myself or Ruth Evershed, if you threaten her, or as much as look at her, I will not hesitate to kill you very, very slowly, so slowly you will be crying for your mother, you worthless pile of dog shit." Seeing tears forming at the corners of Hoult's eyes, Harry presses hard on his throat, but only briefly. "And if you tell anyone at all about my visit, the man who did this to you will kill you, and unlike me, he will most likely enjoy it."

Harry pulls his hand away from Hoult's throat, and stands back. Hoult's eyes are wide, and were he not also hooked up to a catheter, he would have pissed his trousers. When he is sure that Hoult is not about to cry out, Harry turns as if to leave, and then in a theatrical about face, turns back to face Hoult. "Just one more thing," he says, "how did you know where to look for Ms Evershed?" As if he didn't know. He just wants to hear Hoult's answer. Harry has taken his phone from his pocket, and is pretending to send a text message, while all along he has opened his voice recording app, setting it to record.

"I ..." begins Hoult, his voice raspy and strained, "I hacked into the Home Secretary's personal files on his system."

Just as he thought. "Say that again, Dexter." And so Dexter does, and then Harry stops the app recording, and then turns his phone towards Hoult so that he knows he's been recorded. "Insurance," Harry says, smiling his teeth-only smile, "just in case you decide to tell anyone about our conversation, and how my hand accidentally slipped against your throat."

Again Harry turns as if to go, but then he turns back, and moves closer to the edge of the bed. "And if someone asks you how you got these bruises and cuts, and what looks to me like a broken arm," and Harry pokes Hoult's arm with one finger, causing Hoult to take a deep breath before he emits a whimper, "what will you tell them ... _Dexter_?"

"That I stepped in front of a moving car." The injured man's voice is indistinct, due to a thickened upper lip.

"Good lad," Harry says, before patting the broken arm with more force than necessary, and then quickly leaving the room.

Outside the room, Harry looks both ways, and then heads to the lifts at the back of the building. He leaves the building as quickly as he can.

Now he needs to report back to Agnes, and then return to the farm ... and to Ruth.


	12. Chapter 12

By the time Harry drives Ian Swain's Fiat into the front yard of Mara's farm, it has just gone one in the morning, and the house is in darkness. He had rung Agnes, informing her of his visit to Dexter Hoult's hospital room.

"I can almost say for certain that he won't be returning to your cafe," Harry says, and he shares with her how Hoult had discovered Ruth's whereabouts. "I recorded him admitting as much, and if this recording gets into the hands of the Home Secretary, no-one in the western world will employ the whining little piece of shit."

Harry has been surprised by how angry he had become when faced with the man - barely a man, really - who had wished Ruth harm. Driving from Lucca towards the farm, he had hit the heel of his hand on the steering wheel as he'd shouted every expletive he knew towards the man who'd believed he was entitled to the job Ruth had performed so well.

As he'd reached the rise which overlooked the farm house, he had quickly pulled the car off the road, and cut the motor. He'd been holding on to a well of emotion which, as he stopped the car, erupted from deep within him as hot tears of anger and pain. Draping his arms over the steering wheel, he allowed his head to rest on his arms while he cried for Ruth, for himself, and for what they'd almost had, but had lost. He cried for himself and his children, and for the long years during which misunderstanding and false pride had kept them apart. He cried in deep, gut-wrenching sobs until there were no more tears left. What began as angry tears soon became the deep grief of loss, and Harry had had years and years of losses, both personal and professional. When he was all cried out, he leaned back in the seat and rested, his eyes closed, until he was again calm enough to continue.

So, by the time he pulls up in front of the darkened farm house, he is beyond fatigued, and ready for bed. He enters the house through the back door, locking it behind him, before crossing the vast kitchen to the stairs.

Ruth's bedroom at the top of the house is almost in darkness, the only source of light being an eerie glow cast by the new moon through the slanted window in the roof. He had visited the downstairs bathroom to relieve his bladder, before thoroughly washing his hands and face. Once in Ruth's bedroom, Harry removes all his clothes, dressing in the track bottoms and t shirt he normally wears to bed, before quietly sliding under the duvet. The bed is wide enough for them both to sleep comfortably side by side without touching the other, but he desperately wants to make contact with her. He turns towards her, and is about to reach out to touch her, when she mumbles something.

"Pardon?" he says.

"Are you in one piece?"

"I'm fine," he says.

"That's good."

Harry waits for her to say more, but she says nothing more. He suspects she is barely awake, and had simply registered his presence, and then inquired about the state of his health. He turns on his side facing her, and closes his eyes.

* * *

By the time Harry wakes, the sun is shining through the window in the roof, casting its rays on the wall opposite. Seeing he is alone in the vast bed, he rolls onto his back, lying very still in an attempt to detect any sounds from other parts of the house. The early morning quiet is suddenly broken by Benito's barking, and the throaty kicking over of a vehicle's engine. Harry grabs his phone from the table by the bed, and is shocked to see that it is 10.12 am. He has slept for almost nine hours.

By the time he reaches the kitchen, the only person there is Ruth. Being barefoot, Harry has descended the stairs and crossed the room without making a sound. For a long moment he stares at Ruth's back as she stands at the long counter along the wall, buttering toast. She appears preoccupied - lost inside her own thoughts. He ventures closer, his eyes drawn to the curve of her neck, her smooth skin disappearing beneath a pale blue t shirt, which she wears over denim jeans which hug her body. He takes another step towards her, his eyes on the curve of her buttocks.

He is just about the reach out to touch her when she turns, jumping slightly when she sees him so close. " _Jesus_ , Harry," she says. "I could have had a heart attack." She slides past him to the table. "I've made us breakfast."

And that is that. He'd wanted to kiss her good morning, but that will have to wait until after they've eaten. He carries the teapot and the mugs to the table, and sits across the corner of the table from her, close enough to touch her should the impulse arise. He pours them each a mug of tea, sugars and milks his own, and then sits back in his chair to see that she is watching him with the curve of a smile on her lips.

"What?" he asks, grabbing a slice of toast and taking a bite.

"This is only our second shared breakfast," she says softly.

"And I hope there'll be many more," he replies.

Ruth nods, lifting her mug of tea to her lips, and taking a careful sip. "You got back late last night. Tell me what happened."

And so Harry tells her about his night out. As he is recounting his almost one sided conversation with Dexter Hoult, he once again feels a surge of emotion from deep inside him. He stops speaking, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"Are you all right?" Ruth asks, and he nods and continues with the story. He is not all right, but nor is there anything wrong with him exactly. Harry is aware that with his discovery that Ruth is alive, some deeply buried well of feeling has been touched, and he doesn't quite know what to do with it. He is a man who has for so long operated purely on instinct, with scant recognition of his own emotional needs. Perhaps his powerful urge to protect Ruth, along with his need to let Hoult know that he'll be watching him has opened a repository of pain and anger and love which had been pushed down ever since he'd been a young man. More than once his ex-wife had told him that he was a `cold bastard', and looking back on the man he'd been while married to her, she'd been right. Having deep feelings, powerful feelings, is new territory for Harry, and he is having to tread carefully lest he crack wide open like an egg.

"Where is everybody?" he asks, once he has finished his story, and Ruth is satisfied that they are both safe to return to London.

"By `everybody', I imagine you mean Mara and Pietro." Harry nods. "They've taken the lorry into Pisa."

"The _lorry_?"

"Mara wants to pick up a new irrigation system for the vineyard, and Pietro is to have x-rays on his face and hands. Mara is sure he has broken bones. Then they're visiting Mara's sister and her husband, who have a vineyard outside Pisa. She assured me they won't be back until dinner time."

Ruth is smiling, and Harry understands why. "They're giving us some privacy," he says.

"Yes. They're very kind, but not big on subtlety." Ruth watches him for a long moment, but then drops her eyes, and begins gathering their used plates and cutlery. "I'll tidy up here, while you shower ..." she unexpectedly reaches out to run the tips of her fingers across the stubble on his cheek, ".. and shave."

Harry nods while gazing at her. He mirrors her action, running his forefinger from her cheek, along her jaw to her neck, and then sliding the pad of his finger beneath the neck band of her t shirt.

"I'm overdressed," she says.

"We both are."

All this time he has been wondering whether it's too soon for them to be heading to bed together, but it appears that Ruth agrees that this is the time ... _their_ time. He cups her face in both hands, and then leans in to her to place a soft kiss on her lips. When he pulls away he notices her eyes shining, something he remembers from that one night they'd spent together over six months earlier.

"Go," she says, placing both hands on his chest, and gently pushing him away from her.

* * *

He is in the bedroom at the top of the house, wondering whether he should get dressed, or wander downstairs dressed in nothing more than a dressing gown. He is bent over his overnight bag, rifling through his clothes, when he feels a hand rest on his hip. He stands and turns, finding himself in Ruth's embrace, her face lifted to his. "I don't know what to wear," he says.

"What were you wearing when last we went to bed together?"

"A rather grateful smile."

Ruth smiles, then drops her eyes to his cheek, where she runs her finger along his jaw. "Nice," she says.

"I shaved."

Ruth nods, and Harry wonders why he keeps making such inane comments. It is unlike him to be nervous around a woman, but this isn't just any woman. This is Ruth, and she lives and breathes, and she is pressing herself against him, and his own body is reacting.

Harry badly wants to kiss her, but he hesitates, and in that moment of hesitation, Ruth's fingers slide between them, and she deftly pulls open the tie around his dressing gown, so that he stands there in front of her, his partly aroused body on display. Ruth's gaze slowly drops from his shoulders, down his chest and stomach, and then to his genitals.

"You've lost weight," she says, lifting her eyes back to his.

"Not where it counts," he replies, lifting one eyebrow, before he reaches down to slide is arms around her, pressing his mouth on hers in a deep and searching kiss. The time for playing games is over.

When he feels her hands grasping his buttocks, Harry steps backwards until they both fall on the bed in an untidy heap, laughter breaking their kiss. As he reaches down to unfasten Ruth's jeans, he continues kissing her in long, deep kisses. In moments they are both naked, and that is when they press their bodies together, the only sound being their rasping, throaty breathing.

* * *

"Harry. Harry, wake up!" Ruth's voice seems to approach him from a long way off, and with an effort of will he opens his eyes to see Ruth's face close to his own.

"What's wrong?"

"You were shaking your head," she says gently. "What were you dreaming about?"

Harry breaks eye contact, looking through the window above to the clear blue sky. "I don't really know. I was somewhere dark, and I was looking for you." He turns his head to once more look at her, this beautiful woman who had, as they'd climbed under the covers, told him she loved him. He doesn't want to say any more about his brief, but strange dream. He turns towards Ruth, wraps his arms around her, and pulls her closer to him. "Can we stay here forever?" he says lightly, his mouth close to Ruth's ear. Ruth's fingertips play with the sparse hair on his chest, while she presses her lips to his naked shoulder. His reply is to feather his fingertips up and down her back. "For how long was I asleep?" he asks.

"Not long. Fifteen minutes or so."

"I suppose we should be going home soon," he says, not really meaning it.

"I suppose."

When she says no more, Harry remembers that there is an important question he needs to ask her. "When we return home," he says after a long silence, "I'd rather like it were you to join me .. in my rental cottage."

"For a holiday?"

"No, Ruth. I was thinking more of ... forever."

"Forever is a long time," Ruth replies, sliding her hand across his chest to embrace him. Harry waits, thinking that he knows what forever feels like. "I'd like that," she says at last, and Harry lifts his eyes to the window in the roof, breathing out heavily, allowing the tension to leave him. "Besides," she adds carefully, "I'm meant to be dead, so I have no other home to go to."

He knows they are taking a big risk. He knows they are both loners, comfortable in their own company, and that to attempt a life together will be difficult, perhaps even disastrous. He doesn't care about the risks, or the likelihood that they will struggle to stay together in the long term. He believes the risks are worth it, and what is even better, he is looking forward to it.

He drops his eyes back to Ruth's face. "That's good," is all he is able to say.


	13. Chapter 13

Harry lies in bed watching Ruth as she pulls on her clothes. He suspects she is taking her time, putting on a show for him. He'd like to be able to do the same for her, but he doesn't have matching confidence about his fleshy, aging body. When she is once again dressed she turns to him.

"I'll show you around the kitchen garden, but you'd best get dressed first." The soft curve of her lips tells him that she is sending him up just a little.

* * *

Benito trots behind them at a distance as they wander through the kitchen garden, the place where Mara spends most of her day. Ruth points out the different plants, how Mara uses them, and the jobs which still need doing. As well as vegetables, there is a wide variety of herbs, pungent in the sun of late morning.

"It's unlikely Pietro will be up to staking the tomatoes, and they'll need doing soon."

Harry stands still, his eyes taking in the sheer size of the tomato patch, raised above ground level inside barriers created from wooden planks. "Why so many plants?" he asks, as Ruth joins him, grasping his hand in hers.

"Mara uses them to make her pasta sauce, which Pietro has assured me is legendary. Agnes uses it in the cafe, and it's also sold in a few of the market stalls in Lucca. Mara takes it to Pisa, also. There are two restaurants which use her sauce. It's her little sideline. I tried to convince her she could expand her operation, but she doesn't want to. She's afraid no-one will take over from her when she dies. I told her she'll most likely outlive me." Ruth turns to indicate two more plots behind them. "She uses the peppers and the courgettes in her sauces."

Harry is overwhelmed by the sheer size of the kitchen garden, more of a mini farm. "Maybe I can stake the tomatoes before we leave," he says absently, rubbing Benito's belly with one foot, the dog having flopped on the ground right in front of him.

"I think Benito may be falling in love with you," Ruth says lightly.

"So long as he doesn't want to share our bed."

"The stakes are in the shed over there," Ruth says, changing the subject, as she turns to lead the way.

* * *

They work together, mostly in silence, Harry hammering the stakes in the ground at an angle, so that either side of each plant the stakes meet, crossing over at the end to make tying them together easier. It is Ruth's job to provide the plastic ties, while Harry stands precariously on top of the wooden beams which form the boundary of each bed of tomatoes.

By the time the job is completed to Harry's satisfaction, it is mid afternoon, and he is hungry. "I'd forgotten how satisfying it is to be doing physical work," he says, proudly surveying the tomato garden, now covered by rows of wooden steeples.

"Unless you want to help Pietro lay the irrigation for the vineyard, we might have to think about returning to London soon," Ruth muses.

Harry sighs heavily. Returning to London is necessary, he knows, but he is reluctant to leave this slice of Tuscan paradise. He'd like to spend more time on Mara's farm, his hands in the soil, living close to the earth. He'd spent most of his working life walking the fine line between life and death, the stark reality of violence never far from his thoughts. Harry is ready to spend his days living, rather than waiting for death - his own, or one of his team - and he wishes to spend those days with Ruth.

"I rather like it here," he says quietly, gazing around at the vegetable plots all around them, the colours of the ripening fruits and vegetables standing stark against the varied shades of green of the leaves.

"So do I," Ruth says, taking the few steps to stand at his side, where she slips one of her hands inside his. He takes his eyes from the vegetable garden, and looks longingly at her as he laces his fingers through hers. "But we can't stay here," she says quietly, "as much as we may want to."

"Then ..." Harry says, equally as quietly, "I suggest we come here each summer, to help with the harvest. What?" he says, noting Ruth's lifted eyebrows.

"You're assuming several things, Mr Pearce," she says playfully, and seeing that this time the raised eyebrows are Harry's, she qualifies her statement. "You're assuming that in the years stretching ahead of us we'll still be living together, and that Mara would welcome our assistance at harvest time, and thirdly, that I would want to be spending a month or two each summer breaking my back picking fruit."

Harry watches her closely, this woman he has loved for so long. He is waiting for her to continue, but it appears she has said her piece. "The choice is always yours, Ruth," he says gently. "If you don't want us to continue our life journey together, I'll accept your decision, although I'd not be happy about it, and I'll not give up trying to convince you otherwise."

"Of course I'll live with you," Ruth says quickly. "I was just checking that you still want the same thing."

"You know I do."

She nods and smiles into his eyes. "Are you hungry?"

* * *

Over a lunch of crusty bread rolls, ham, cheese and avocados, they continue to discuss their plans for the immediate future.

"As much as I love it here," Ruth begins, once she is sitting across the table from Harry, who is tucking into a bread roll stuffed with ham, mustard and lettuce, "we should leave soon."

"Is it Hoult? I think he may have to spend a few days in hospital."

"I think you might have frightened him sufficiently, but it's unlikely he came to Italy without telling someone. I think we should leave at the weekend."

That's three days away, with only two full days left on the farm. Harry feels a dip of something in his stomach - regret, sadness. He'd like them to be spending the rest of their days here, but he knows they can't, at least, not yet. Maybe some time in the future his name and hers will have drifted away on the sands of time, and no-one will care where they are, or what they are doing.

Harry watches Ruth closely. He knows her well enough to recognise that she has more to say. He places his half eaten roll on his plate, and gives her his full attention.

"I'll need a job when we get home," she states quietly, but firmly.

"I can support us both," he says quickly, not wanting to think of her going off each day to work somewhere, when he has ample funds to support them both for the remainder of their lives.

"I thought you might say that. I'm thinking of doing some further study, and to support myself, I'll need something part time. I could teach."

She could, of course. As much as he'd miss her during the day, he doesn't wish to be a possessive or insecure partner to her. "That sounds ... fine," he says quietly, hoping that she can't read the sadness in his eyes.

Ruth drops her eyes, and piles ham and lettuce onto the base of her bread roll. "I know you're still upset about Ian ... that I'd had sex with him."

"I'll have to return his car to him on Saturday," Harry says, hoping he's sufficiently hidden any emotion he may be harbouring. He doesn't wish to be discussing Ian Swain. He is hardly in a position to be judging her, or blaming her, especially given he would need more than the fingers of both hands to count the number of regrettable encounters he has had with women.

Ruth nods. "I know you do. I'd rather not see him," she says, and Harry knows why. Ruth has sparked the fires of lust in this man, and she doesn't wish to flaunt herself with her chosen lover in front of him. At least, that's how Harry reads it. Being a man, he knows that the truth of the matter is that Ian saw vulnerability in Ruth, and he took advantage of it, and when Ruth regretted her actions, he wouldn't take no for an answer. To Ian Swain, their sexual encounter had been little more than a transaction which he had misunderstood. While he wishes she had not had that moment of weakness, it is in the past, and she has chosen him. For that, he will be forever grateful.

* * *

After they have cleaned up after lunch they take a walk, with Benito trotting along behind them, always keeping them in his line of sight. Occasionally he darts off after some quarry or other - a butterfly or a mouse - but mostly he keeps pace with them.

At the beginning they walk a little apart, until Ruth reaches for Harry's hand, and he grasps her fingers gratefully between his own. "I like holding your hand," she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "I like being close to you."

"Me too," he replies, before taking his eyes from her, gazing out across the hills which rise behind the wheat crops and the olive grove. "Let's walk through the olives. I want to see what's on the other side." He suspects there are even more olives, but he likes walking beside Ruth, his hand engulfing hers, her shoulder brushing against his as they amble towards the olive trees.

The olive grove is deceptively large, and through one avenue between the trees is more olive trees in rows which stretch almost to the foot of the hills which surround the northern side of the farm.

They talk little, simply happy to be in the company of the other, until Harry, having been thinking ahead, speaks what is on his mind. "Once we get home I have two phone calls to make," he says. "One is to my daughter, and the other is to my psychologist."

On the word, `psychologist', Ruth stops suddenly, turning to face Harry. "You saw a _psychologist_?" she says.

Harry is sure he'd already told her, but perhaps she'd forgotten that detail. "Malcolm suggested it, and gave me his name. He helped a lot, and eventually he was the one who encouraged me to begin looking for you."

"Thus losing himself a client. He's either very kind or very stupid."

"He's not stupid," Harry says, just as they hear the blast of a horn from the other side of the farm.

They both turn to see the lorry slowly crawling over the hill on the road from Lucca towards the farm.

"They're warning us that they're home," Ruth says, smiling.

"Do you think they suspect us of having spent the whole day in bed?" he asks.

Ruth shakes her head and smiles. "I think that they hope we have."

"They do know I'm in my late fifties, don't they?"

This time Ruth nods. "When I told Mara about you, and I might have mentioned your age, she said that love makes men young again, pushing them to doing foolish things."

"Like this," he says, drawing Ruth into the shade of an olive tree. In one swift move Harry pulls her against his body, sliding his hands around to press against her back, before bending to kiss her. The kiss lasts a long time, as he searches for her tongue with his. His hands eventually find their way under her shirt, where he lifts her bra and cups one bare breast with his hand, while his thumb caresses her nipple, back and forth, back and forth in a steady rhythm. It is when he hears Ruth's moan from deep in her throat, and feels her pushing her pelvis against him that he begins to pull away. "Consider that a curtain raiser to later," he says huskily, his mouth close to her ear. When he lifts his head he notices her eyes are dark with desire.

He steps back while Ruth tidies herself, adjusting her bra, and then running her hands over her hair to straighten it. His eyes are drawn to her nipples, still erect and pressing against the fabric of her shirt. He is almost fully erect himself, so deeply satisfying was their snog. He thinks they should walk this way again before they leave, and pick up the kiss where they left off.

"You had to prove it, didn't you?" she says, grasping his hand once again, before they turn to head back to the house. Benito has already run on ahead, keen to see Mara and Pietro.

Harry nods and smiles. He doesn't think he acted foolishly, and he is certain that he feels younger.


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N:**_ _ **Parts of his chapter are M rated.**_

* * *

They reach the house to find both Mara and Pietro standing in the kitchen garden, admiring the tomato patch. Benito is sitting on his haunches staring up at Mara, who appears to be ignoring him.

" _Bellisimo_!" says Pietro, once Ruth and Harry enter the kitchen garden.

"How did you know?" asks Mara, reaching down at last to pat Benito, who then relaxes at her feet.

"I heard you telling Pietro that the staking needed doing by the end of next week."

Pietro's hands are bandaged, and the cut on his cheek is covered by a long white strip of plaster. "Five," he says, lifting one bandaged hand, and stretching his fingers with some discomfort. "Five stitches on cheek. No _chirurgia_ ," he says, looking at Ruth, hoping she'll translate for him.

"He refused surgery," Mara says to Harry. "He doesn't tolerate doctors. He calls them murderers," she adds, rolling her eyes.

"Mamma, I hear you," Pietro says. "They _assassini_. My papa in hospital. Not come out."

"He did, but he was dead," Mara adds matter-of-factly. She suddenly brightens, turning towards the house. "It's time I prepared dinner."

* * *

Dinner is a quiet affair, with only Mara chatting about their day out, while Pietro is quiet, and Ruth and Harry are anticipating the evening ahead of them. They steal quick glances at one another, and both know they'll not be lingering for long for a chat after the meal is ended.

"The irrigation equipment for the vineyard is to be delivered next week, but the posts and a roll of wire are on the back of the truck," Mara prattles, her speech in English as rapid as when she speaks Italian. "Tomorrow we can watch while Angelo from across the hill -" and she points towards the hills behind the olive grove "- brings his post hole machine to put in posts. Pietro can do the hard work, while we watch."

Harry looks to Pietro to see the man smiling widely. "Nothing keep Pietro down," he says proudly. "Not bomb, not knife, not man who fight like girl." And then he stabs his fork into his tortellini, and shoves the pasta into his mouth.

While Pietro heads to bed early, claiming hospitals always make him tired, Mara sits over a glass of grappa, and begins telling Harry and Ruth about her two husbands. As much as they are longing to go to bed together, Mara is a born storyteller, and her life story is intriguing.

Mara tells of how she'd met Pietro's father while still in her teens, and then her pregnancy had forced a sudden and unwise marriage, with Pietro being born three weeks after her nineteenth birthday. She rambles through her memories of Pietro's father's temper, his many fights, and his philandering.

"He was a handsome man, and women were drawn to him, so it's fitting he died from blood poisoning after a knife fight when Pietro was just fifteen. I tried to tell Pietro the truth about his papa, but he still refuses to believe me."

Then Mara, a little dewy eyed, takes them through her memories of meeting Nikolai, a Russian intelligence agent who had worked with Italian intelligence as a double agent. This man had drawn her into his world, and soon she was working with him. They had married in secret, and fifteen years after she'd first met him, and when Pietro was almost thirty-two, and about to marry Agnes, Nikolai had been shot and killed by Mossad agents.

"They mistook him for someone else," she says, "someone important in Russian intelligence."

Harry silently wonders who was the intended target. Perhaps it had been Ilya Gavrik. "I'm sorry," he hears Ruth murmur from beside him. He turns towards her to see genuine sadness in her eyes. Only Ruth can grieve for someone she'd never met, and who had died when she was still in her teens.

"That's when I retired from spying," Mara continues, "and with the money I'd saved I bought the cafe in Lucca."

"And this farm?" Harry asks. Surely spying isn't that lucrative. It hasn't been for him.

"The farm came to me when Pietro's papa died. It had belonged to his parents. When I die it will be Pietro's, and should he die first -" and she looks from Harry to Ruth, barely needing to point out that she considers that outcome quite likely. "If Pietro dies before me, then it will pass to Enrico, who I am sure will want to sell it. Enrico is not a farmer's fingernail," she says, lifting her pinky finger to illustrate her point.

Harry notes that in the hour it has taken for Mara to relate her story, not once has she mentioned Pietro's father's name. It's possible she has determined his name should never again be spoken in polite company, while living on as the name of her dog. Catherine had once told him that Jane only ever refers to him as `your father', and never uses his name in his children's presence.

"Your life has been very eventful," Ruth comments quietly, once it is clear Mara has reached the end of her tale.

"No more that yours, or Harry's. No more than anyone else who does what we do." Mara sits back in her chair, considering them both. "Now ... go upstairs and make love. There is not nearly enough love in the world." And then she stands and takes her empty glass to the sink.

Ruth and Harry stay seated, both staring after her, stunned into silence by her bluntness.

"That's an order," Mara adds, her back to them while she rinses her glass under the running tap.

Ruth and Harry both stand, quietly saying goodnight to Mara, before crossing the kitchen to the stairs. After all, an order is an order.

* * *

Finding that he is in need of fresh clothes, Harry returns downstairs and then outside to retrieve his suitcase from the boot of Ian's car. He'd never expected to be staying here for a few days. He'd believed that the best he could hope for would have been a wary reunion with Ruth, a cup of coffee shared in the kitchen, and the promise to meet once Ruth had returned to London. He had not even dared hope that he was about to spend his days in her company, and his nights in her bed. Her very welcome response to him is a continuing source of joy and wonder to him.

When he'd left the bedroom for downstairs, Ruth had been in the shower. He had showered before dinner, while Ruth had helped Mara prepare dinner. So when he returns to the loft bedroom with his case, he quietly enters the room through the open doorway, lifting his eyes to see Ruth standing next to the bed, her body gloriously naked. He stands silently transfixed by the image of her rubbing lotion into the skin of her belly, her fingers working in a circular motion across her abdomen. It is when her fingers work downwards, towards her dark thatch of pubic hair that Harry takes a step towards her. He can feel his body reacting, and so he turns towards the chest of drawers just inside the doorway, and places his bag beside it, next to his overnight bag.

"Harry," Ruth says carefully, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he says, turning to face her, and it is only then that her eyes travel down his body to where his arousal is clear for all to see.

Harry watches as her hand comes to rest just above her pubic hair, her middle finger delicately positioned as if about to plunge inside her. As she lifts her eyes to his he is barely breathing. "Come here," she says huskily, moving both hands to her sides. The bottle of lotion still stands opened on the bedside table.

Harry swallows, before he joins her beside the bed. Ruth reaches out with one hand to grasp his hand, and then, with her eyes holding his with a boldness uncharacteristic of her, she pulls him closer until he is standing flush against her, his erection pressing against her belly. "I suspect I'm overdressed," he says, closing his eyes, pressing himself closer.

Ruth's only response is to reach up to open the buttons of his shirt one by one, and once she has done that, she pushes the garment from his shoulders. He is about to open the buttons on his trousers, but she pushes his hands away so that she can indulge in that small pleasure.

"I've always wanted to do this," she says, pulling the zipper of his trousers open, and then with both hands, sliding his trousers over his hips and down his legs.

"Always?" he manages to say huskily.

Ruth lifts her eyes to his, and he sees the sparkle of teasing in them. "It was quite early in our acquaintance when I ... wondered how you'd react were I to .."

"So .. what took you so long?" Harry asks, barely able to speak, and surprised he can manage a complete sentence.

"I needed to first feel ... comfortable with you ... like this."

"And you haven't?"

"Not until now."

"I'm sorry," he says, and meaning it.

"You can be rather intimidating, Harry," she says, "but when we've been in bed together, you've been tender, and ... real." Ruth lets go of Harry's trousers, and then slides one hand inside the back of his trunks, her fingers squeezing one bare buttock. Harry finds her touch to be electrifying, and his cock hardens even more, insistently pressing against her belly.

"I hope you're no longer intimidated," he says, focusing on the touch of her fingers. He has already pushed off his shoes, and dragged off his socks with his toes, before stepping out of his trousers.

Then, with one defined movement, Ruth takes both hands to the waistband of his trunks, and pushes them down, over his hips, and down his thighs. With her own toes, she pushes them down his legs, and he steps out of them. Still with her eyes on him, she steps close to him, and once more presses her body against his.

It has been a mild day, and the night is cool, and yet inside that loft bedroom, the temperature is like mid summer. The door still stands ajar, but there are myriad doors and hallways and flights of stairs between their bedroom and the ground floor, which is two floors down. Neither are concerned that they will be heard by those downstairs, and especially not by Pietro, who is probably already lost inside a land of dreams. Harry wonders what kind of dreams a man like Pietro would have; perhaps he's dreaming of travelling from town to town, winning fights.

"Harry," Ruth whispers, reaching up to draw his face down to hers, "you haven't even kissed me."

How could he have not kissed her? With both hands again on her hips, his thumbs caressing the delicate skin beneath her hip bones, he places a soft kiss on her lips, before moving down her neck to her chest, and then to her right breast. He runs his tongue across the skin of her breast until he takes her nipple in his mouth. Her moans of pleasure shudder through her, and when he feels her hand gently cup his balls, while her thumb glances back and forth along the base of his shaft, he decides that Mara's orders need to be followed.

"Bed," he says gruffly, before lifting his head to gaze into her eyes, darkened by her desire for his tired and battered body. She nods, breaking contact with him to crawl into bed, lifting the covers in an invitation to him to join her.

They lie in bed facing one another, while Harry enjoys the touch of Ruth's fingers on his belly, and then his inner thighs, as she playfully avoids his most sensitive places. His own fingers have found her slick and ready, as he slides two fingers inside her, his thumb sliding over her hard nub. It is when she rolls onto her back, the movement having drawn the duvet from her, that her whole body is splayed beside him. It is an invitation he'd can't resist as he shimmies down to bury his face between her legs, working with his tongue and fingers, until her hips begin to buck beneath him, and her sighs of pleasure become cries of ecstasy.

He gives her a few minutes rest, before he begins again, this time kissing his way up her body to her breasts, which he loves with his mouth and his fingertips. He watches her closely. She has taught him that timing is everything, and as much as he wishes to indulge his own need for release, he is prepared to wait until she is begging for him to push himself inside her. It is not long before she's sighing, `now, Harry', her eyes darkened with desire. He lies between her parted thighs, and slides inside her, taking his time, drawing a cry of frustration from her. With his face so close to hers that he can see the fine pores in her skin, he lifts his eyes to hers to see the love shining from her blue eyes. Over and over, he sinks himself deeper inside her, and when he feels her muscles rippling around him, her fingers pressed into his lower back, he at last lets go. In the sweet aftermath of his climax he breathes her name, his mouth close to her ear. He wants to tell her he loves her, but he is just too exhausted to speak a full sentence. He hopes Ruth can read the love in his eyes, as he can in hers.

Having fulfilled Mara's orders, now they are free to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

When Harry wakes, it is to the stoccato of Benito's barking, accompanied by the shouts of Pietro for the dog to be quiet, followed by Mara's voice, slightly less aggravated, suggesting Pietro not blame the dog. Harry smiles, feeling comforted by the normality of life on the farm, and the warmth of the body beside him in the bed.

Very carefully, Harry removes his arm from beneath Ruth's head, drawing a grumble from her. "Don't," she says, "I was comfortable."

Harry kisses the top of her head, and then pulls her hair away from her face so that he can place a soft kiss on her throat, moving his lips up her neck to her chin, and then to her lips, pouty and displeased. He moves his lips over Ruth's, hoping for a response, and when she begins to respond to him, he pulls away.

"What's wrong?" she asks, opening her eyes.

He can't answer her question. While he feels warm and sated, he is also terribly drained. He suspects that the events of the past few days have caught up with him, and last night's lovemaking had used all his reserves of energy. As much as his head wants to again make love to Ruth, he's sure his body is simply not up to it. All he's after is a cuddle, and he's afraid she may be after more.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before he once again lies back against his pillow.

This time Ruth turns towards him, rolling over until she is leaning on one elbow, her face above his. "I'm not after anything more than an early morning kiss and cuddle, Harry," she says gently. "I'm not expecting you to be able to perform on cue."

"Sorry," he says again, wishing his bedroom vocabulary were more creative, and hopefully original. He'd once been rather good at the morning-after bed talk, mostly empty sentiments which he rarely meant. He's discovering that honesty requires more effort.

"Please don't be sorry." Ruth moves away slightly, her eyes still on him. "I want you to feel free to be honest with me," she says quietly. "We'll not last long were we to pretend with one another."

"I wasn't pretending," he says. "I can't rise to the occasion again so soon, especially after what has happened since I arrived. I - mistakenly, it seems - thought that you were after more."

Ruth rolls onto her back to lie beside him, while a long silence ensues. "As much as I am enjoying sex with you, Harry, I'm not asking for the impossible."

"If I could, I'd do it every day at least twice, but ..."

"We'd soon tire of such a schedule," Ruth says, and despite her words, Harry can hear the humour in her voice.

"I want to give you the best, Ruth."

"You are. You are the best person ... for me. I'm fussy about who I allow close to me, and you forget that I love you." Ruth stops speaking for a moment, watching him all the while.

"I haven't forgotten," he says quietly. "How could I?"

"It's been an inconvenient love," Ruth muses, "which is why we've taken so long to .. get here .. like this. And please don't apologise when you can't ... perform."

Harry swallows, embarrassed. Fearing he'd say the wrong thing, he'd always said very little while in bed with a woman, other than to those who were little more than passing fancies, sharing his bed for a time or two. Such women were little more than distractions, and boosters to his often flagging ego. He could always say the right things to those women - empty words which rolled off his tongue in a practised way, but if examined, had little substance. He doesn't know how to speak to Ruth in bed, but he'd better learn, and fast.

"It's not my desire for you which is flagging this morning," he begins. "I'm just exhausted from .. everything which has happened."

"I know, and I do understand."

"Finding you alive has been both a shock and a joy so far beyond anything I'd ever ... imagined that I'm afraid it's taken all my energy to ... keep up."

He waits for a long moment for Ruth to reply to his sincere confession, but she says nothing. Instead, he feels Ruth's hand searching for his beneath the duvet, and he reaches to meet her hand with his. The squeeze of her hand around his fingers is reassuring, and he sighs heavily with relief. "Thank you," he says quietly, "for understanding."

* * *

The next three days are spent outside, with Mara, Ruth and Harry, and on his free mornings, Pietro, working in the vineyard and the kitchen garden. Ruth assists Mara in the garden, while Harry gives Pietro a hand in the vineyard. Once Angelo - from the farm next door - had dug post holes, and then helped Harry and Pietro secure the posts, this leaves Harry to secure the wires through the posts.

"These vine ... sticks ...?" Pietro begins, pointing to the branches which are already green with fresh sprouting.

"Branches?" suggests Harry, and Pietro grins widely.

"Branches need place to grow," Pietro says, demonstrating what he means by tying a few branches to the wire, a job which becomes Harry's.

While he had previously believed Pietro to be a thug with a hair-trigger temper, by the end of the second day working side by side with the large man, Harry has to admit that Mara's son is someone who has his heart in the right place. Perhaps the red mist descends too readily, pushing him to acting impetuously, but Mara has assured him and Ruth that her son only ever hurts those who threaten people he cares about. Were anyone to threaten either her or Enrico, or even Agnes, Pietro would be capable of murder.

Friday night's dinner is another of Mara's special pasta dishes, this time using one of her bottled sauces. The meal is accompanied by bottles of local red wine, which Harry declares to be the best red he's ever tasted. Pietro arrives home early from working in Agnes' cafe in Lucca, Agnes having convinced her German lover, Horst, to work in Pietro's place.

"I drink wine to you," the large man says, lifting his wine glass to Ruth, then to Harry. "We friends ... _amici._ "

" _Amici_ ," Ruth and Harry say together, lifting their glasses towards Mara, and then Pietro.

* * *

Harry has first shower, while Ruth sits with Mara over a pot of dandelion tea. By the time she enters the loft bedroom, Harry is curled beneath the duvet, and appears to be asleep. She turns out the light, and he feels the bed dip slightly as she climbs in beside him. He remains silent, feigning sleep, until he feels her hand slide over his hip and beneath the hem of his t shirt, and while her fingers are cold against the skin of his stomach, this doesn't detract from the fire he feels at her touch.

"You surprise me," he says, without turning to face her.

Her fingers still on his stomach, their exploration interrupted. "What do you mean?"

He turns then, and he regrets the movement as she withdraws her hand. "Don't stop," he pleads, rolling onto his back.

"What do you mean?" Ruth repeats, her hands clasped beneath the duvet.

Harry sighs, wishing he'd kept his thoughts to himself. How like him to interrupt Ruth with an opening to a discussion, when all she wants is to explore his body. He really does have terrible timing. "What I mean is," he says quietly, "that I hadn't expected you to be so confident with me .. in bed."

"You're no longer my boss, Harry."

"I haven't been your boss for almost a year, so why now?"

The silence which follows has him watching her closely. Ruth is staring at the slanted window above them, although being a dark night, there is nothing much to see. "I couldn't see us getting anywhere while I was still working in close proximity to you. You must be able to see that." She turns to look into his eyes, and he can't help but adore her, with all her intellectualising about what he sees as being so simple, almost black and white. But he has to admit that she has a point. Sleeping with someone with whom he works hadn't gone well in the past.

"And that night before I was taken away by the Americans?" he asks, risking her shutting down all over again. When she doesn't answer straight away, he wonders has she already lost interest in their conversation.

"That was an act of desperation," she says at last, "although it was part desperation, and part regret."

Harry suddenly breaks eye contact, turning towards the wall. If he's being honest with himself, the image of Ruth squirming beneath the young and fit body of Ian Swain won't leave him, no matter how much he tries to delete the image altogether. In the months when he'd believed Ruth to be dead, sex had been the last thing on his mind. His body had gone into stasis, as all his energy was channeled into holding back the wall of grief which had threatened to drown him.

"The mood seems to have gone," Ruth says at last.

"I'm sorry. I imagine that's my fault. I'm not used to doing physical work."

Ruth turns to face him, her face resting on her hand. Feeling her eyes on him, he turns his head towards her. "It's not that, Harry. I know you. Sex is important to you, as it is to me. What I did with Ian wasn't sex." He watches her closely. How is it she can read his mind so clearly? "It was anger led me to tumbling on the spare bed with Ian, and before you ask, it wasn't terribly good. We were both angry, and we should have thrown a few plates instead, but sex seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Why were you angry .. _really_?" He rolls onto his side to face her fully.

"I thought ... I believed that you had put work ahead of coming to me. Now I know that's not true."

"Are you still angry?"

"Not with you, no, but I'm still mad at Towers. I plan to see him when we get to London."

"Is that wise, given you're officially dead?"

Harry watches Ruth as she frowns. "But he knows I'm not dead."

"I know. I'm thinking of all the many people who believe that you are."

"I think London would be the perfect place for me to hide."

".. In plain sight," Harry adds unnecessarily.

* * *

They arrive in Pisa after having bid a reluctant goodbye to Mara and Pietro. While Harry is delivering Ian's car to him, Ruth waits in a cafe just around the corner, ordering a latte for herself. She is surprised when, less than ten minutes later, Harry returns to the cafe.

"That was quick," she says.

"It was. No-one answered, so I left the car in the underground car park, and then dropped the keys in his mail box." He smiles into her eyes. "Now we're free to go home."

They spend two nights in a hotel in Pisa, and do a bit of sightseeing on the Sunday, before flying home late morning, Monday.

As the plane readies to land at Heathrow, Harry watches Ruth, and as the aircraft comes to rest, he leans close to her, and says, "Welcome home, Ruth."

She turns to him and nods. "Thank you," she whispers, before she gives him a quick kiss on the lips. "It's good to be home at last."


	16. Chapter 16

Suffolk - 7 days later:

Harry finds himself at a loose end. He glances around the cottage, wondering should he at least give it a clean, but Ruth had asked him to wait until she's back home so that they can clean the cottage together. Being alone in his home, something he has done for much of his adult life, is suddenly a chore, something challenging and unwelcome, so that when his phone rings, he is thankful for the distraction.

"So .. how is everything, Dad? You messaged me with the news that you'd found Ruth, and then nothing."

Harry grabs a chair at the table in the kitchen, and sits. "I'm so sorry, Catherine. We've been busy. We've been back in the country a week, and I've just put Ruth on the train to London. She has an appointment with her former employer."

"So, she's still with you."

"Yes she is, and she's staying with me .. here."

"Good. That _is_ good news, is it not?"

"It is. I can't share much of the last couple of weeks with you, other than to say that there was a plot of sorts to keep us apart."

"Forever?"

"No. Just until I retired."

"So .. you're unpopular, Dad."

"That's not exactly news."

"It appears that .. unpopularity runs in our family," Catherine says quietly. "I need to get out of London for a few days, and I was wondering ... I know that you and Ruth need time alone, but -"

"Catherine -"

"What?"

"When are you planning to visit us?"

"How about next week? Wednesday?"

"You'll spend a few days with us?"

Harry can almost hear Catherine sigh with relief. "I'd love to," she says.

* * *

Later the same day - London:

While the Home Secretary had suggested they meet at an upmarket restaurant in Chelsea, Ruth prefers familiar territory, suggesting a small, intimate little pub not far from the house she'd been living in when she'd first joined Mi5 nine years earlier. Being a man used to wielding power, she knew Towers would prefer to choose the venue, favouring somewhere close to central London. Ruth had other ideas, including arriving earlier than the appointed time.

When Towers and his entourage of two security officers arrives at _The Bell and Bugle_ , Ruth is already sitting at a table in the tiny restaurant. When Towers bustles over to her, all smiles and empty chatter about the abominable traffic and an inconvenient shower of rain, she remains seated, nodding towards the chair opposite hers. They order their meals immediately, since Towers has already forewarned her of his next appointment in just over an hour.

They both order light meals, and it is not until they are half way through eating that the tone of the meeting changes from a quick and friendly catch-up to something else entirely.

"Since I'm no longer in your employ," Ruth begins, "I am now free to speak my mind without fear of censure." Towers' smile immediately fades, being replaced by a wariness familiar to her, so she quickly continues. "Harry found me in Italy, and we've been comparing notes." Ruth takes a sip from her glass of water, her eyes never leaving Towers. "I now know how fundamentally our lives have been changed by the lies you told each of us -"

"You must know, Ruth, how lies are an integral ingredient in the business of negotiation within government," Towers interrupts, his voice low ... quiet .. wary.

Ruth will not be put off. "On reflection," she continues, "I find your actions to be ... unforgivable." She glances down at her plate before pushing it away, her appetite having left her. "I know you were blackmailed, but both Harry and I had always trusted you. He spent long months grieving my supposed death, while I believed he'd put work ahead of finding me. You even led me to believing he was in Russia." She takes another quick sip of water. "I was planning to give you a thorough telling off, but .. I find that my earlier level of outrage has left me, and all I'm left with is disappointment, and ... quite a considerable degree of disgust." On the word, `disgust', Ruth drops her eyes, finding Towers' shocked open gaze unnerving. When she again lifts her eyes, he has managed to adopt a mask of neutrality, one worthy of a member of the security service. "I cannot possibly work for you again," she continues, her own honesty rendering her brave in the moment. She imagines that once she leaves the pub she'll need to find somewhere quiet to sit down and recover. "Not in any capacity can I possibly work for a man so ... weak that he can can so easily be blackmailed, as you were. What you did is incompatible with my system of values."

Ruth has said all she'd planned to say. In her head, where she'd planned her little speech to Towers, she'd expressed anger and outrage at his behaviour ... at his carefully crafted deception, but in the moment, she is unable to sustain the level of indignation required. She has been diminished by deception, tired of being forced into exile twice in the space of five years, each time having to separate from Harry. In the end, all she wants is to draw a clear line underneath her time with the security service.

She looks up to see Towers watching her closely. "I couldn't agree with you more, Ruth. My behaviour towards you especially has been tawdry and opportunistic. I owe you both an apology." Towers fiddles with his dessert fork, before once more lifting his eyes to her. "As compensation, your severance pay is especially ... generous. It will be in your account within three days. You have earned every penny."

And that was that.

Ruth stands, silently announcing her leaving. Towers puts out his hand for her to shake, but as she shakes her head, turning to leave, he drops his hand by his side, his expression grim, his shoulders a little stooped. Ruth is relieved to read shame and embarrassment in his eyes. Perhaps this man's discomfort is penalty enough for his behaviour towards her and Harry.

When she leaves the pub, she finds a taxi, giving the driver the address of Malcolm Wynn-Jones. Only once she is settled in the back seat of the taxi does she hold both hands out in front of her, where she notes with surprise that they are steady as a rock.

* * *

As expected, Malcolm's welcome is guarded, but warm. "Ruth," he says, smiling into her eyes, "do come in."

Malcolm leads her to the same polished table beneath the same large window overlooking the garden as Harry had sat with him only months earlier. To Malcolm, the time between Harry's visit and Ruth's return to London feels like an age. They sit either side of the table, a large pot of tea between them, along with a plate of oat biscuits from Fortnum and Mason; Ruth had spied the tin through the open door to the kitchen.

"I need to thank you personally from Harry and myself," she says, once they have exchanged a few remarks about the weather and the traffic.

"No thanks is needed," Malcolm replies. "I discovered that you had been done a deep disservice, and my only option was to right the wrongs done by ... those in high places."

"High places," Ruth remarks with a smile. "The people behind the events following my apparent death are the lowest of the low. I had lunch with Towers." Seeing Malcolm's raised eyebrows, she continues quickly. "I told him what I thought of the decisions he'd made out of ... weakness."

"Quite right, too."

"I can no longer work for him or anyone in the security service."

"While I understand your reasons, Ruth, your considerable skills will be missed."

Ruth focuses her eyes on her tea cup as she takes a careful sip of her tea, before again lifting her gaze to Malcolm. "I have so many more skills I've not yet fully explored, and I'm sure there's some bright young thing out there, itching to be an Mi5 analyst."

"So you have plans?"

"Loose ones at this stage, but I'd like to try teaching - perhaps at a university - but in the meantime, I thought I might do some further study."

As Malcolm lifts his tea cup to his lips, he lifts his eyebrows in an unspoken question. "A PhD perhaps?"

"No. That would require a level of commitment and time which I don't have. I'll have to discuss this with Harry, but I'm thinking of doing an Honours degree in Politics and History. It's only an idea I have. By this time tomorrow I could have changed my mind."

* * *

When Ruth's train pulls into the Ipswich train station, the sight of Harry standing on the platform, his eyes anxiously scanning the passengers as they disembark, brings sharp tears to her eyes. When he sees her he hurries to her, gathering her in his arms and pulling her against him. She finds herself laughing, her face pressed against his jacket.

"Let's go home," he says gruffly, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the exit.

They are in Harry's car, winding their way towards the exit from the car park before either of them speaks.

"Places like this fill me with anxiety," Harry says before cutting neatly in front of a rather large SUV.

"Places like this?"

"Public places, places with a lot of people milling around. They're a spy's playground."

"Or a pickpocket's," Ruth adds. "I found London .. cloying, and I never thought I'd think that, much less admit to it."

Harry nods, concentrating on the traffic. Before too long they are on the open road heading out of Ipswich. He wants Ruth to tell him about her lunch with Towers, but is reluctant to address the subject directly. After another five minutes of silence from Ruth, Harry bites the bullet.

"And how was your lunch with Towers?"

He feels her eyes on him, but he keeps his attention on the road ahead. "How do you do that, Harry? You knew where I'd been and who I'd seen, but you waited until now to ask me? I expected an interrogation the minute I got off the train."

"I was just happy to see you," he says lamely, "and I was hoping you'd initiate the conversation."

He turns to see Ruth's blue eyes on him, her lips curved in a slight smile. "I was dying to ring you when I was on the train, but it was hardly the place for a private conversation featuring the Home Secretary."

Harry waits a long moment, but she says nothing more. "I'm aging by the minute here," he says at last, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

So Ruth shares with him her encounter with the Home Secretary. Ruth has a memory for words which allows her to recall conversations almost word for word. By the time she finishes recounting her lunch date with Towers, they are close to home.

Harry waits until he has negotiated the turn into the lane leading to his cottage before he comments on Ruth's meeting with Towers.

"What I'd like to know," he says, glancing across the interior of the car to where Ruth is watching him, "is why he met you for lunch in the first place. Surely he knew he was in for a bollocking from you. I hadn't pegged him for a masochist." Giving Ruth another quick glance, Harry sees a smirk on her face. "Do tell," he says lightly.

"You know .. although he was prepared for my leaving, I believe he hoped I'd beg him for my job back. He seemed genuinely shocked when I launched into my rather polite tirade."

" _Jesus,_ " Harry says, slowing the car as the lane winds towards the cottage, "I'd believed Towers to be smarter than that."

"So had I," Ruth murmurs, just as Harry slows the car, ready to park under the carport beside the cottage.

* * *

Later:

They are lying side by side beneath just a sheet, their skin shiny with sweat, neither able to speak. They'd begun kissing, and the rest had followed quite naturally, clothes discarded on the floor, hands and lips exploring bare skin like this was their first time. They had tumbled together onto the bed, coming together quickly, desperation making them hurry, fearful that their time together may be brief, and that some time in their near future they will once again be parted. When they drew apart they each flopped onto their backs, their breathing heavy, their bodies liquid and sated.

"That was our best yet," Harry breathes, once he is again capable of coherent speech.

"Mmm," is all Ruth can say.

"Oh, and I forgot to tell you ..." Harry says, before Ruth falls asleep, "about Catherine."

"Mmm," Ruth says again, her body about as relaxed as it's possible to be this side of death.

"She wants to visit us for a few days."

"Right."

"You have no objections?"

With that, Ruth slowly turns her head to look at him. "You know how to pick your moments, Harry," she says quietly. "At this moment I'd be happy were you to tell me your ex-wife is planning to visit."

"Well, I wouldn't."

"I'd like to meet your daughter."

Harry lifts himself on to one elbow, gazing down at Ruth. "I think the two of you might get along rather well," he says. "She's also caring and compassionate .. like you."

"And we both love you," Ruth murmurs, lazily reaching up to cup his cheek.

Feeling a lump forming in his throat, Harry can only nod.


	17. Chapter 17

8 days later:

Ruth has woken to find herself alone in bed. Of itself that is not unusual. For more years than she can count Harry has woken before the birds, but when she lies still and listens, she can hear no sound from downstairs, no clattering of cutlery, no chinking of cups and plates, nor footsteps on the wooden floor. Sliding from beneath the comfort of the duvet, Ruth decides to go in search of him.

He is not in the kitchen or the living room, and she's already checked the bathroom, and the door to the loo was ajar, with the light off. Peering through the living room window, she sees Harry standing on the small front porch, a mug of something hot in his hand, his eyes gazing towards the sea, dirty-dish-water grey in the light of early morning. She spends a moment watching him unseen. He stands very still, occasionally lifting his mug to take a sip. Even in his early morning calm he holds his shoulders square, those same shoulders which had for so long borne burdens too heavy for one man, burdens almost beyond her imagining. No man should have to do what Harry has had to do; year after year he had endured while members of his team had fallen away. Year after year he had stood firm, shoulders back, jaw set while he faced threats to his country, his city, and those he loved, including her. In that moment, Ruth decides that she will stand beside him always, helping him, loving him, supporting him, providing him with a shoulder to lean on when his own shoulders can carry no more. After all this time, Harry needs to have someone by his side, and Ruth wants that someone to be her.

As if he can sense her scrutiny, Harry turns towards the window, and seeing her face, he offers a lop-sided smile, before stepping towards the front door. Once inside, with the door closed, he ambles towards her, one eyebrow slightly raised. She reaches up with both hands, cradling his face between her fingers, lifting her face to his for a lingering good morning kiss. When the kiss ends they step a little apart, each scrutinising the other.

"You appeared far away," she says at last, which draws a deep sigh from Harry.

"I was thinking about the likelihood that, had I not decided to see Ken Henry, and had he not supported my wish to discover once and for all if you had in fact survived the stabbing, how everything may have turned out quite ... differently."

"Only temporarily, Harry. Had you not come looking for me, I eventually would have found you, if only to give you a good telling off for not coming to get me."

At her words, Harry's face relaxes into a gentle smile, his eyes twinkling. He nods. "True," he says. "I have a favour to ask of you," he says, heading towards the kitchen so that Ruth has to follow him. "I rang my psychologist first thing, and he'll see me late morning."

"Catherine?"

"If she arrives before I get back, could you ...?"

"I'll make her welcome," Ruth assures him.

"I know you will."

"But your psychologist? Is there a problem I don't know about?"

Harry smiles a slow smile. "If there is then I'm also unaware of it. No, I thought I should visit him in person, just to ... bring him up to speed."

Ruth nods. No-one is more surprised than her that Harry even agreed in the first place to speak to a professional; of itself, that is a minor miracle. She's not about to complain about him not being home when Catherine arrives. Who knows? A private conversation with Harry's daughter might prove enlightening. No, she'll be happy to greet Catherine on her own.

* * *

Colchester - late morning:

Ken Henry had led Harry straight into his kitchen, where a coffee pot bubbles on the cooktop.

"It's good to see you looking so healthy and happy," Ken says, once they are seated on the stools at the counter which overlooks the kitchen, and the view of the woods through the window above the sink. "I must say that I hadn't expected this outcome, but I couldn't be happier for you."

Harry nods. He has felt the need to personally thank Ken for his advice that he pursue his suspicions, but he can't help but feel awkward that while he has Ruth back in his life, this kind man is still a widower.

"And I don't want you to be feeling bad for me," Ken continues, as if having read Harry's thoughts. "I'm happy for the privilege of living vicariously through the successes and joys of my clients. Your clear happiness is something I am enjoying also. It makes what I do worth it, and in an odd and convoluted way, it gives meaning to Helen's early death."

Again Harry nods, not entirely sure he follows the other man's reasoning. Were he in Ken's shoes, he'd be feeling rather pissed off with God ... were such a being to exist. "There was quite a story behind Ruth's apparent death," he begins, before launching into the tale of how and why it was thought a good idea to fake Ruth's death. Once he reaches the present day, he falls silent, watching Ken while he absorbs the story, along with all it's implications.

"I can remember telling you that this kind of thing has been done before," Ken says, gazing at Harry. "This ... what was done to you and Ruth ... is especially low. I imagine you have no legal recourse."

"None at all, although Ruth's severance pay almost makes up for it. A condition of that payment is that no further action be taken by either of us."

Ken nods. "And William Towers gets to do the very same thing again, should the opportunity arise."

This time Harry allows a small smile to escape. "I think that Towers' days as Home Secretary might be numbered. The powers behind his actions won't stop at this one incident. They will continue to blackmail him until he is no longer of use to them, or he retires, whichever comes first. Once he outlives his usefulness, he'll be forced to resign."

"So ..." Ken says thoughtfully, staring through the kitchen window to the woods beyond, "this man is also a victim."

Harry hesitates, not wanting to answer, but truth is important to him. "He is, yes."

"Perhaps you're best out of the service, Harry."

"I know I am." Harry contemplates the bottom of his coffee mug. "And I get to see Ruth every day."

* * *

Harry enters the cottage, eager to see his daughter again. His session with Ken Henry had run well over time, so by the time he parks his car behind Catherine's, the sun is well past the yardarm, and he is experiencing pangs of hunger.

Inside the cottage the two women he most loves in the world are sitting at the table in the kitchen, laughing about something or other, having not even heard him arrive home, or enter the cottage. It is Ruth who sees him first, and she quickly gets up to greet him with a quick kiss. "I'll make you some lunch," she says, stepping aside. "We've already eaten."

Harry nods his thanks, before wrapping his arms around Catherine, who has stood at a respectful distance while Ruth had greeted him.

"It's so good to see you again," he says quietly, his cheek against Catherine's hair.

Catherine pulls away, her hands resting on her father's forearms. "And it's so good to see you so relaxed and happy, and ..." and Catherine glances quickly in Ruth's direction, "to at last meet Ruth."

"I hope you like her," Harry whispers, leaning close to his daughter.

"What's not to like?" she answers. Although her whisper echoes around the small space in the kitchen.

"I heard that," Ruth says at last, her attention on the frypan on the cook top. "Am I being discussed?"

"Of course not," Harry and Catherine say in unison.

* * *

Later that afternoon:

"Didn't you want to accompany Ruth to the shops?"

Catherine's blurts out her question at the same time she removes Harry's used coffee mug from his fingers, where he's been fiddling with the handle, wondering what to say to his daughter, who'd appeared enamoured with Ruth. He lifts his eyes to Catherine, who is standing at the sink, staring at him, waiting for an answer.

"I suspect she wanted to leave us free to have a private conversation."

Catherine slowly returns to her chair opposite Harry's, where she sits, folding her hands on the table top. "I like her, Dad. I mean _really_ like her. She has substance. She's not at all what I expected."

"She's not at all the kind of women I expected to settle down with. In fact, I'd long ago given up on the idea of finding someone to spend my life with. I'm afraid my cynical world view had made me a rather unpleasant companion."

"Until Ruth."

"Yes," he breathes, before he swallows a knot of emotion which had crept to the back of his throat from his gut. Given Catherine is his one and only beloved daughter, he wants to be honest with her, to show her who he is, but talk of Ruth - honest talk of Ruth - leaves him almost unable to breathe, his emotions surrounding his fraught history with both his daughter and his lover whirling around inside him like a late summer storm. As though needing to clear his throat, Harry coughs. "She kind of ... crept up on me. We had to work together closely, and that can be risky in any workplace. The boss falling for a much younger woman is such a cliché. I tried not to be attracted to her, and she to me, but ..."

"I hope it works out in the long term, Dad. I recently did the maths, and I'd been with Fabian for longer than you and Mum were together. I used to be proud of that, but ... being with someone day in, day out is hard. We only lasted as long as we did because we spent so much time apart."

Harry has no illusions that he and Ruth will walk off into the sunset, never to be parted again. It will take more than their combined will for them to remain together. He and Jane had once cared deeply for one another, and his philandering had been a symptom of their crumbling relationship, rather than the cause. Sometimes parting from a loved one is the kindest thing to do.

"Having said all that ..." Catherine continues, once again taking the seat opposite Harry, "and notwithstanding the Pearce cynicism, which I appear to have inherited from you -"

"I'm quite sure cynicism is not an inherited trait, love. It's a learned behaviour, I'm afraid."

"Whatever," she says dismissively, "your story ... yours and Ruth's story has me rethinking my status as a permanently single woman." Lifting her eyes to Harry, she sees a slow smile softening his face. "I thought I might ... dip my toes in the dating pool, and ..."

"...swim among the sharks."

Catherine smiles and then nods, perhaps a little shyly, realising she'd just taken her long-rejected father into her confidence. "What harm can come to me?"

"What indeed?"

"I'm sure there must be some decent, honest men in their thirties, waiting for me to brighten their lives."

Harry nods. "Your mother will be pleased," he says.

"Please don't tell Mum," Catherine pleads, "or she'll be ordering the wedding stationery."

"Your secret is safe with me," Harry replies.

Catherine nods, before dropping her eyes, and examining her fingers. "I was wondering," she ventures, "whether you'd be prepared to spare Ruth this Friday evening."

"Ruth's free to make her own arrangements. I hear the village pub has karaoke on Fridays," he adds, silently wondering how it is he knows that.

"It can be Girls' Night Out," Catherine says, beaming.

Suddenly, Harry feels as old as Methuselah. "I'm sure I can find something to occupy my time."


	18. Chapter 18

Friday - late evening:

Harry tells himself he'd stayed up just in case Ruth requires a lift home from the pub, but even he knows that's not the whole truth. Deep inside himself, where he dare not linger, he knows he is rather worried she'll meet a nice man of her own age, so putting that small seed of doubt in her mind about the wisdom of being with a man more than fifteen years her senior. He does not consider himself to be at all insecure within his relationship with Ruth, but there are bound to be moments, such as the one he's imagining, when he wonders why Ruth would choose him when there are a smorgasbord of men in the world from whom she could choose.

But are there, and would she?

He is saved from having to pursue the subject further by the slamming of a car door outside the cottage. Ruth had travelled to the village pub with Catherine. Perhaps the pub had been a disappointment. He opens the front door to see only one woman stepping from Catherine's small sedan.

"Catherine not with you?" Harry comments, as Ruth joins him on the porch.

"She met someone," is all she says before she slides past him, and into the front room, where she flops into one of the large armchairs. "Tonight I discovered I'm too old for a night out at the pub." She watches Harry as he stands across the room from her, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. "Even the obligatory karaoke failed to enthuse. If I ever have to listen to another Take That song I may have to resort to -"

"Catherine's staying out?" Harry asks, effectively ending her one-sided tirade. "Is she -?"

"She's fine, Harry. She met someone. That's the chief reason we went out in the first place."

Despite Ruth's clarification, Harry is still frowning. "A man?"

Ruth nods, and this time she smiles up at him, and for the first time he notices how tired she looks, so he crosses the room to sit in the other armchair, across the coffee table from her.

"A nice man. I gave him my stamp of approval." She glances towards the kitchen. "I'd kill for a cup of tea."

"Right," Harry says, standing and striding across the room to the kitchen. By the time he is pouring boiling water into the teapot, Ruth has joined him in the kitchen, sitting across the table from where he stands, teapot in one hand, two mugs in the other. "Are you hungry?" he adds, placing all on the table, before turning to grab the small jug of milk.

"I ate all night - you know, nuts, crisps, and pork scratchings."

"The sixth food group," Harry says, sitting at last. "What's he like, this ..."

"Lewis. His name's Lewis."

Lewis had ambled up to Ruth while Catherine was in the ladies' loos. Ruth's immediate response was to cringe in her seat, hoping he'd walk by. She hadn't expected to be hit on, and especially not by a younger, rather attractive man with broad shoulders, square hands, and clear blue eyes. In the moment before Lewis planted himself on the spare chair at the table, the one furthest from her, Ruth decided that she'd be polite and cool, stating she was only at the pub to keep her friend company.

"I'm sorry to intrude," he had said in a deep, mellow voice, "and I hope you don't think me rude for asking ..." which is when Ruth had taken a breath, preparing to interrupt this poor man's speech. What he'd said next took her by surprise. "I've noticed your friend, and I was wondering ... is she single? It's just that -"

"She's single," Ruth had said quickly, deciding that this man - whoever he was - was alright, and appeared to be a worthy candidate for Catherine's affections.

Lewis's smile, which exposed straight teeth, lit up the room. "Good. That's good, then," he'd said, suddenly embarrassed. "I don't normally do this kind of thing, but your friend ... interests me. She seems ... sad .."

Which was when Catherine had returned to their table, offering the man sitting across from Ruth her widest smile. "And who do we have here?" Catherine had asked, reaching out to shake the hand he offered before she even knew his name ... and other details.

* * *

"That was at around half-nine, and I only stayed as long as I did to make sure he wasn't a serial killer," Ruth adds, having filled Harry in on their night at the village pub.

"She's staying the night with him then?"

"I've no idea," Ruth replies, carefully placing her mug of tea on the table. "Lewis assured me he'd bring her home. He just didn't say when. I think Catherine is old enough to -"

"I know she is," Harry says quickly. "I suppose I'm looking for some ..."

"Reassurance?" Harry nods. "For what it's worth, he gets my stamp of approval." Ruth gazes at Harry across the table, a slight smile turning her lips. "In a way he ... reminded me of you. Other than he's a little taller than you, he looks how I imagine you'd have looked in your mid-thirties."

Harry twists his mouth to one side. "Remind me to show you a photo of myself at that age. I was an arrogant little shit who believed he could do anything, and get away with it."

"And could you?"

Harry smiles a genuine smile. "Not all the time, no." Harry then busies himself with pouring another tea for them both, and once he's sugared and milked his own tea, he continues his interrogation of Ruth. "Do you know what this ..."

"Lewis."

"This Lewis ... do you know what he does for a living?"

Ruth gives all her attention to her tea, as she stirs it, knowing Harry's questions will only end when he feels reassured of Catherine's safety, or she runs out of answers, whichever happens first. Catherine is his only daughter, and she is precious to him. "He's a builder."

"What does he build?"

"He and his older brother are in business together. They specialise in renovations .. like barn conversions. They're currently adding an extension to an underground house."

"Underground? Why build underground?"

"I believe the temperature inside remains steady throughout all seasons, so the heating bill is very low."

"What's wrong with a regular house?"

"Nothing. I imagine it has something to do with creative vision."

"Is he -"

" _Harry_ ... I didn't exactly interview the man, and he's not about to marry Catherine .. not yet, anyway."

Harry lifts his eyes to Ruth, and she reads apology in them. "I'm sorry. I just ..."

"I know. You're worried about her, especially after Fabian."

Harry admires the way Ruth can read his thoughts, almost before he has them. Her ability to preempt his responses had been one of the many reasons they had worked so well together. That it has spilled over into their personal relationship should not surprise him. "I thought Fabian to be a good man," he muses.

"And he probably still is. It's just that not all good relationships last forever."

"I know."

Seeing the flash of fear pass across his face, Ruth continues, knowing she must use the utmost care when choosing her words. "We've lasted this long, and we've endured two extended separations, neither of them our doing, and yet here we are. That has to be a good sign." When he slowly nods, she continues, still being careful. "I want to be with you for as long as we live, and I know you want the same thing. We have to remember that, especially when ..."

"I know. I'll keep that in mind, whenever things get ..."

And Harry never gets to finish the sentence, as Ruth's phone rings from inside her bag. He watches her while she answers, knowing that the caller will most likely be his daughter.

And it is. "That was Catherine," Ruth says, avoiding eye contact with Harry. "She called to let me know she's spending the night with Lewis, and we shouldn't expect her home until the afternoon. Lewis wants to show her some of his handiwork." When Harry's eyebrows shoot up, Ruth smiles. "I think she meant he'll be showing her some of the properties he's renovated."

Harry nods, smiling. "We can go to bed then."

"I think we should take advantage of an empty house," Ruth says, avoiding Harry's eyes, which she knows will be following every move she makes.

"And we won't have to be quiet," he replies, surprisingly quietly.

Again Ruth drops her eyes from his, suddenly shy beneath his scrutiny. "No," she says, slowly lifting her eyes to his, holding them boldly. "We won't."

* * *

Next day - Saturday - afternoon:

When Lewis Farrow and Catherine Townsend arrive at her father's rental cottage, they find the cottage empty. Catherine unlocks the door before wandering through the downstairs, calling out to Harry and Ruth, while Lewis remains in the living room, unsure of the protocol in such situations. Being honest for a minute, Lewis is already head over heels, and while he's met Catherine's father's partner, he is a little worried about the man himself.

"Is this them?" Lewis calls out to Catherine, who had been about to unlock the back door. "I think I recognise Ruth, and she's with a man who looks like he could be your dad."

When Catherine joins him at the living room window, it is to see Harry and Ruth walking towards the cottage from the direction of the sea. They are both dressed in jeans and thick jackets, and Ruth's hand is slipped comfortably through her father's arm, while she keeps her eyes down as he talks. Viewing them from this distance, she can see how naturally they fit together; even the pace of their walking is matched by the other. As they approach the cottage, they stop to examine Lewis's pick up truck. Catherine is sure she detects a frown on Harry's face. She is annoyed to admit to herself that she is hoping for his approval.

"That's my father," she says quietly, and no sooner are those three words spoken than Lewis has opened the front door, and is striding purposefully towards her father and Ruth.

* * *

Ruth looks up as Lewis approaches her and Harry. She has opened her mouth to speak, but Lewis beats her to it.

"Hello again, Ruth," he says, offering her a lopsided, blue-eyed smile.

Ruth nods her hello, but then Lewis turns his attention to the man standing next to her, thrusting his hand towards Harry. "Mr Pearce, I'm Lewis Farrow, and I'm very pleased to meet you."

Beside her, Ruth feels Harry's arm muscles clench. She drops her hand from Harry's arm, but not before she gives his arm a warning squeeze. She glances quickly from one man to the other. "I'll just ... go inside .. to speak to Catherine," she says, hurrying from the scene. As she approaches the cottage, Ruth is sure she can feel Harry's eyes burning into her back.

Ruth closes the front door behind her, joining Catherine at the living room window.

"What's he doing?" Catherine asks, her forehead wrinkled in a frown.

"I suspect he's attempting to charm Harry."

"He's good at that," Catherine replies, turning away from the window to give Ruth her full attention. "He's already won me."

Ruth nods. She'd rather not discuss either man while they're not present to defend themselves. "While we walked Harry and I talked," she begins carefully, since they had agreed that she should be the one to impart this information. "I need to get away for a while," and Catherine's sharp look of concern has her continuing quickly, "with Harry, of course. We intend travelling the continent for a couple of months. When Harry took me to dinner for the first time -"

"When was that?"

"2006. July."

"He doesn't move quickly, does he?"

"It was me who held back, Catherine. He was my boss, and .. it was difficult. When we shared that dinner, we talked about travelling. This morning, while we were walking, I suggested we do it soon, before either of us gets any older."

"How soon?"

"A couple of weeks. Harry wants to keep the lease on this cottage, so if you'd like to keep your key, you can .."

"- escape to the country whenever I want."

"And hopefully, if Lewis is still in the picture ..."

Catherine nods, smiling. "I think he might be. He's pretty keen."

"And you, Catherine, are you keen on him?"

She turns to watch Harry and Lewis through the window. "I might be. He's so much different from other boyfriends I've had. They were all .."

"Like Harry?"

Catherine smiles. "All have had an eye for other women, which was what kept me on my toes, and oddly, kept me interested in them. Plus .. they were all rather good in bed."

Ruth nods, smiling. "And Lewis isn't?" She quickly closes her eyes, wishing she could take back her words. "Sorry. That was ..."

"We haven't been to bed together. We spent most of the night talking, then we watched a DVD, and fell asleep in our chairs. Tonight he's taking me to dinner in Ipswich, and we're staying overnight in a hotel."

Before Ruth can reply, the door opens, and Harry enters the cottage, followed closely by Lewis. The room overflows with their presence, the testosterone levels suddenly through the roof. Harry catches Ruth's eye, lifting his eyebrows in an unspoken question. She nods and smiles, and he offers her a private smile of his own, twisting his mouth to one side in that endearing way he has.

Ruth then tears her eyes from Harry, and takes in Catherine and Lewis, who are standing together by the window. "Coffee?" she asks, and the other three all nod.

"Do we have biscuits?" Harry asks. "I'm starving."

"I could do with a hand," Ruth says, staring right at Harry, who takes the hint, joining her in the kitchen.

"So what was that about?" she asks, standing at the cupboards, where she is gathering mugs, coffee and sugar, while Harry fossicks around for fresh biscuits.

"What was what about?"

"You and Lewis."

Harry glances at her, waiting until she offers him eye contact. In the interim his eyes graze over her, and not for the first time, he considers himself the luckiest man in the world that this extraordinary woman loves him, and plans to spend her life with him. While he'd prefer the certainty of marriage, he also knows that a marriage certificate doesn't ensure happiness, or fidelity, or the guarantee that she will always love him. He knows he will always love her. "He was just .." he begins distractedly, his eyes on Ruth's mouth, "hoping I'd like him, I think. He seems quite ..."

Ruth is watching him closely as he watches her. "Quite what?"

Harry lifts his eyes to hers, suddenly aware that he'd been staring. "He seems quite decent. I hope he sticks around. Catherine needs a safe and stable relationship."

Ruth drops her eyes to the electric kettle and smiles. She knows that Catherine is not the only Pearce who needs a secure and stable relationship. "I know you do," Ruth says quietly, and she reaches up to cup his cheek in her hand before she places a soft and slow kiss on his lips.

"Is the coffee made, or do we have to make it ourselves?" they hear Catherine say from the kitchen doorway.

Like a couple of teenagers caught snogging on the back seat of her parents' car, Harry and Ruth quickly pull apart, Harry back to his search for biscuits, while Ruth begins pouring the coffees. "All done," she says, turning to place the first two mugs on the table.

* * *

 _ **A/N**_ _ **: And while the story could easily end there, I have written two more chapters in which some - although not all - loose ends are tied off. The first of these chapters will be posted mid week, while Chapter 20 will be up next Saturday.**_


	19. Chapter 19

Tuscany, Italy - 10 weeks later:

Ruth stands at the sink where she's just finished washing the day's dishes, gazing through the window to the kitchen garden where Pietro, Harry and Enrico are chatting at the end of another back-breaking day. Benito the dog lies in a patch of shade, head on his paws, his eyes closed. As if sensing her attention, Enrico looks up and catches Ruth's eyes, smiling widely, apparently none the worse for his day working in the garden, and then the vineyard, now bursting with fresh leaves. Harry, on the other hand, looks wrecked, the fingers of both hands pressed into the muscles of his back.

Ruth feels Mara just behind her shoulder. "Your man needs a massage," she says quietly. "Maybe after we eat you can take him upstairs," and she walks back to the table, where she'd been attaching labels to her bottled tomato sauce.

Ruth knows Mara well enough to recognise the older woman's comment is a suggestion that sex is the best antidote to Harry's sore back, and to any ailment at all. "I think he should take it easy from now on. Maybe tomorrow he should help Enrico check the vines."

Ruth is saved from having to listen to Mara's further assessment of the situation by the three men entering the house through the back door.

"Your Harry, he good worker," Pietro says, addressing Ruth directly, "but him not used to .. _this_ ," and he turns towards the window, waving his arm in the general direction of the kitchen garden. "He strong, but not strong like Pietro." Ruth has noticed that Pietro often talks of himself in third person, an unnecessary affectation in her opinion.

While Pietro had been speaking Harry has crossed the floor to stand at Ruth's side. "I need a shower," he says quietly, his words just for her.

"You'd do better with a bath," she replies, lifting her eyes to his, reading the weariness there.

He reaches down to place a quick kiss on her cheek. Despite Pietro's assessment, Ruth rather likes a hard-worked Harry, his face, neck and forearms tanned from two weeks spent in the Italian sun, his body odour musky with dried sweat, his shoulders stooped with fatigue. He turns from her to head upstairs.

A little later, once the dishes are finished, Ruth turns towards the table, checking that everything which required washing had been washed. She only lends half an ear to Pietro and Mara as they argue about what should happen in the vineyard, while Enrico tries talking over them, almost shouting his plans to return to Lucca to help his mother in the cafe, but needing his grandmother's permission to do so.

Ruth has crossed the kitchen, and is almost to the doorway when above the voices of Mara and Pietro she hears Enrico calling to her. " _Buona notte, bella_ Ruth," he calls, and then he continues in clear, accented English. "You tell your man that if you ever tire of him, I'll be waiting here for you."

Ruth has become almost immune to Enrico's flirting. She knows it is harmless, but in the wake of Pietro's comments about Harry, she experiences a moment of irritation. Just short of the doorway, she turns towards him, ready to throw a sharp remark, but her eyes take in his ready smile, his eyes dancing with mischief, and she just can't stay angry with him.

"I'll tell him," she says, smiling before she hurries from the room.

She is already half way up the first flight of stairs, so she misses Mara reprimanding her grandson. "Be careful, Enrico," she says, her words rattling from her mouth in staccato Italian. "Harry could kill you with his bare hands."

And when Enrico throws his head back and laughs, Pietro slaps his son lightly across the back of the head. "Show respect for your nonna," he says in English, while Enrico turns towards his father, holding up both hands in surrender.

"It was a joke, Papa," he says in English. "I can't help it. She is beautiful."

"Keep eyes in head, and _pene_ in pants," Pietro continues, standing over his son. "Not all girls fall for big smile. Some like muscles. You got no muscles. Man who works hard get muscles. Harry got muscles. He crush you," and on the word `crush' Pietro slowly closes his fist in front of his son's eyes.

The two men continue throwing mild insults at one another, while Mara ignores them. She has heard it all a thousand times before.

* * *

Ruth is relieved that she'd only spent three half-days working outside in the sun, weeding around the next crop of tomatoes, which will not be ready for harvest until after she and Harry have returned home. While working beside Mara in the kitchen, the older woman had shared more stories of her days as a spy, which had given Ruth ample thinking time, time in which to review the weeks she and Harry had spent wandering through Europe. They had devoted almost eight weeks to their Grand Tour. The plans they had shared over their first dinner six years previously had been thrown away in favour of a circuitous trip through several European countries. They'd only spent two nights in Paris, one night in Rome, and another two nights in Amsterdam. They had followed their noses and their hearts, mingling with the residents of numerous small towns and villages, eating at roadside cafes and restaurants, and once - at Ruth's insistence - spending two uncomfortable nights in a tent on the edge of lake just outside a tiny mountain village in northern Italy. Each night Harry had complained of the lumpy ground beneath the ground sheet, and the constant sounds from outside the tent. "If we get eaten by wolves ..." he'd murmured into the darkness on their first night in the tent, "I'll be blaming you."

"If we do, then we'll die together."

"And I suppose you think that's romantic," Harry had mumbled in reply. Ruth knew his chief complaint was having to sleep in discomfort, close to nature.

From that village they had travelled directly to Mara's farm to assist with the tomato and courgette harvest, and the cooking and bottling of Mara's various tomato-based sauces. Ruth is looking forward to returning home in two days. She longs to again have Harry to herself.

She stops just outside the bathroom door on the top floor of the house, the bathroom used exclusively by the two of them. She knocks gently, calling his name. When there is no answer she ventures inside. Across the room is the deep, claw-footed bath, and curled inside the bath with only his knees and his head and shoulders above water, Harry lies, his face turned away from her. It is only once she draws closer that Ruth hears his soft snore. Harry is exhausted.

During their first week on the farm Harry had worked in the vineyard, digging in the weeds, and trimming the branches. While around a third of the grapes budding on the vines have been allowed to ripen, allowing the plants to recover and revive after their decade of neglect, the remainder had needed pruning. This activity had meant Harry had had to bend down, often having to spend long minutes bent double. Once that was done, Ruth had helped him to spread another layer of mulch around the vines, to prevent loss of moisture during the hot days of August.

Pulling the bath mat closer to the bath, she kneels beside it, resting her forearms along the side, watching his face, relaxed in sleep. Without thinking about it, she reaches out to touch his shoulder. Very gently she rubs his skin, back and forth in a rhythmic motion, but he sleeps on. She continues to rub his shoulder, while with her other hand she reaches beneath the surface of the water to glance her palm over his chest. This is when he stirs, until very slowly he opens his eyes, turning his head towards her. Ruth removes her hand from his chest, and he frowns.

"Don't stop," he says, his voice croaky, but too late, Ruth is already on her feet.

"How about I make us each a sandwich," she says, "and we eat it in our bedroom?"

Harry's nod is barely perceptible, but she takes it as a yes.

Downstairs Ruth finds all three members of the Marafino family talking at once, so that they barely notice her entering the room. Ruth is also aware that this is a normal night for them. As she crosses the kitchen to the fridge, she watches Pietro as he gesticulates while talking, the scar on his cheek now no more than a small white line on his tanned, leathery skin, the hallmark of his victory over Dexter Hoult.

Not until she is making sandwiches for herself and Harry does Ruth tune into the conversation at the table, and what she overhears has her turning from the counter to face the three of them. "Say that again?" she asks of Mara.

"He's dead," she says flatly and matter-of-factly.

"Man who fight like girl now worm food," Pietro says before taking a swig of his beer.

"Mamma called just a few minutes ago," Enrico explains, standing to join Ruth at the kitchen counter. "That English guy -"

"It was a secret service hit," Mara interrupts from her place at the end of the table. "He crossed a line, so they shot him. A bullet in the back of the head, execution style, then another in his mouth ... the punishment for those with loose lips."

"Nonna," Enrico implores, turning to face his grandmother, "it was a text-book Family hit."

" _Phht_ ," Mara says dismissively, " _Mafioso_ , secret service, CIA, the Vatican, they're all the same, no difference. Gangsters every last one of them."

Ruth tunes out while she finishes making sandwiches, and then she takes hers and Harry's dinner from the kitchen, and up the stairs to the room at the top of the house, the cacophony of Mara, Enrico and Pietro all speaking at once echoing in her ears.

* * *

"So they got him," Harry says quietly, after Ruth tells him the news. He takes another bite of his sandwich, munching slowly before swallowing. "I wonder what he did to earn an execution."

"Who is `they' exactly?"

They are sitting at a small round table in one corner of their bedroom. Ruth is still wearing the light-blue dress she'd worn that day, but Harry appears much younger in a summer-weight dressing gown he'd bought in Rome, under which he appears to be wearing very little. While he still appears tired, he eats with relish.

"`Who' could be any one of the secret services, but I'm guessing the CIA paid some Mafia family to take him out."

"So this isn't to do with him hacking into Towers' files," Ruth says, almost to herself.

Harry looks up. "As wrong as that was, it's not serious enough to have him killed."

"You mentioned the CIA."

Harry sighs heavily, sitting back in his chair, gazing across the room distractedly. He has no happy memories of the CIA. "I have no idea what would have led Hoult to die in that way, but while the method is Mafia, the origin of the order is no doubt secret service."

"Maybe he blew the whistle on someone," Ruth muses, ".. or something."

"Maybe," Harry says, his fingers fiddling with the ties of his dressing gown, and Ruth senses that he's done with the subject of Hoult, a talented analyst who continually wanted more. He then demolishes the remainder of his sandwich, sitting back in his chair while wiping his fingers on one of the paper serviettes Ruth had brought from the kitchen. "As much as I sometimes miss it," Harry says as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, "I'm just relieved I resigned when I did."

"I'm glad we're going home," Ruth says quietly.

"So am I," Harry replies. "Besides, if I spent another day in that garden, I'd have to be carted out in a pine box."

* * *

While Ruth and Harry had suggested they have a low key send off, their last night on the farm is anything but low key. The cafe in Lucca is left in the safe hands of Horst, Enrico, and Enrico's girlfriend, Gabriella, leaving Agnes free to spend the evening with Ruth, Harry, Mara, Pietro, and Angelo from the farm next door, along with his wife, Bianca, and their son, Joe. While it is a small gathering, it is not quiet. Pietro, Joe and Angelo argue about football, only calling a truce once Mara points out there is little point to their argument, since `football is football, and no matter who wins, life goes on'.

Ruth and Harry sit together, he with a glass of red wine, and she with a coffee and a half glass of white wine.

"We drink to Ruth .. Harry," Pietro says at last, holding his half glass of red wine high. " _Grazie mile_ for work. See you next year."

Everyone agrees that is an apt toast, and so more wine is opened, and freshly made shortbread is brought to the table by Mara and Bianca. While they enjoy the shortbread, Ruth and Harry pace themselves with the wine, until amid loud protests they say goodnight, and head upstairs.

"English have no stamina," Pietro protests, as their guests take their wine glasses to the sink, and for once, Angelo agrees with Pietro.

" _Stop_ ," says Mara firmly, "they only have one more night in that bed upstairs."

Her implication is clear to all, as everyone at the table nods sagely, watching the two English guests slink through the doorway.

* * *

"What's wrong?"

Twenty minutes later Ruth and Harry are in bed, lying under just a sheet. Ruth has already noted that on his way back from the bathroom, Harry had closed their bedroom door, but she'd said nothing.

"I've gone off the idea," he says moodily.

"Because those downstairs will know that we're -"

"Yes." Harry snaps the word, and as much as Ruth wants to make light of his sensitivity, she also knows why he's been struck by shyness at the starting gate.

"That's alright," she says, rolling away from him, "I can wait until we get home."

They lie together in the darkness, the sky above the window dark, with only a scattering of visible stars. "Do you think I'm being ... idiotic?" he asks at last.

"Of course not. I think we should just go for it. They believe we're doing it anyway."

"I'm no longer .."

".. aroused," she finishes for him, and through the hand she holds beneath the sheet, Ruth feels him nod. She drops his hand, turning on her side to face him. Seeing the silhouette of his stony expression, his lips in full pout, she feels the need to make amends, to snap him out of his mood. "I've been thinking about marriage."

"Ours, or marriage in general?"

"Both, actually." Ruth presses her lips to Harry's bare shoulder, which has him turning his head to look at her, his eyes very dark in the low light. "I always viewed marriage as a huge risk," she continues quietly. "I've known many couples who have lived together for years, and then once they married, things between them fell apart spectacularly. It's as though being married meant they didn't have to try as hard to remain together. I can't help but conclude," she says, now on a roll, "that for many people marriage is little more than an act of desperation. I don't want that for us, Harry," she concludes rather lamely.

He watches her for a long moment, his expression serious. "And nor do I," he says at last, "but I like to think that what you have described is a somewhat cynical view of marriage. We're not like everyone else, and look at how hard it's been for us to remain together, and yet .. here we are."

Ruth has to concede his point. "I'll think about it," she says, again pressing her lips to his shoulder.

"Just don't think about it for too long," he says. "I'm not getting any younger."

Ruth reaches under the sheet for his hand, grasping it between both her own, before she lifts it to her lips. "I promise," she says.

Harry smiles into the dark. He plans to make sure she keeps her promise.


	20. Chapter 20

**_A/N : This is the final chapter of this fic. Thank you to those who have continued reading to the end, and as usual, thank you to those who left reviews._**

* * *

Suffolk - eight days later:

Once back in the cottage just outside Felixstowe, they revelled in their isolation, enjoying the other's company, their shared meals leisurely and quiet.

"Do you miss the Marafino family?" Harry had asked asked on their third night home.

"I miss them, but I don't miss the constant noise. I enjoy our silences."

Harry had nodded, leaning across to place a gentle kiss on Ruth's cheek. "Me too," he'd replied. "I wonder what surprise Catherine has for us."

"It's a surprise just for you, Harry. That's how she worded it in her email."

"I just hope she's not pregnant. I don't want her entering into a long-term commitment with Lewis on the basis of a slip-up."

"If she is, I'm sure it's planned," to which Harry had replied with a grunt.

The truth is that Catherine has taken Ruth into her confidence about the surprise, wanting Ruth's opinion about whether her proposed idea was a good one. Ruth had messaged Catherine that, provided the participants are willing, she considers the surprise a very apt one, and that Harry will not only be surprised, but happy. But what would she know? Harry can be enigmatic, and private, and there are times when she finds him incredibly frustrating.

Despite reassuring her that he is happy, Ruth is aware that just beneath the surface of Harry's vacillating moods lies a core of melancholy, and while they both acknowledge its presence, Harry refuses to share the cause of his angst with Ruth.

"It's just the Service," he says, brushing away her concern. "I'm told it takes a while before its shadow leaves completely. I've told you before how what we'd discussed in JIC meetings had changed us all, Ruth. The images I'd walk away with were never pleasant, and more often than not they were distressing."

"How did you deal with that?" she'd asked, already knowing the answer. "You can't keep carrying that with you for the rest of your life."

"I know I can't, and you know very well how I'd deal with it."

She does, of course. Ever since she's known him, Harry has relied upon the comfort of alcohol, although since he'd found her in Italy she has noticed his alcohol consumption to be noticeably restrained compared with when they'd worked together.

But Ruth knows that is not the only reason for Harry's dark moods. She believes she knows the reason, and she hopes she is right; she hopes she and Catherine are right.

* * *

By mid-afternoon on the Saturday, eight days after their last day in Tuscany, Ruth is nervous, and Harry has decided he needs to take a walk to the beach. "Coming?" he calls to Ruth, standing at the front door, one hand on the door knob.

Why not? A brisk walk might serve to calm the anxiety which is beginning to cloud her normally clear mind. She nods. The day is mild, so she'll not need a coat.

They amble along the walking track which takes them towards the beach, before joining the walking trail which continues in each direction, parallel to the sea. "North or south?" Harry asks, squeezing Ruth's hand.

"I've no idea. You choose."

Ruth enjoys her walks with Harry. There is no pressure to sustain a conversation, and so she uses the rhythm of their stride to sort through any messy, left-over thoughts which tumble around untethered inside her head. Firstly there's the marriage question, and she still doesn't know how she really feels about that. She and Harry are living together, committed to one another, and while they haven't planned any further than the next few weeks, they are mostly happy together in the moment, so why meddle with that? To his credit, since their last night in Mara's house, Harry hasn't revisited the subject.

Then there's her own professional future.

"I know you're thinking deep thoughts, Ruth. I can feel it."

Since they'd turned to walk northwards, Ruth has slipped her hand through Harry's elbow, her fingers grasping his jacket. "I don't know if I want to be discussing my work future .. with you," she says, nicely (she thinks) deflecting his attention from her thoughts on marriage, "but I am rather worried about you."

" _Me_?" Harry stops dead, bringing Ruth to a halt beside him.

She looks up to see his eyes darkly brooding. She breaks eye contact, all the better to organise her thoughts. "I'm wondering what will happen were you to wake up one morning wishing you hadn't resigned from the service."

Harry stares out to where the sea is grey and quiet. "That day will never come, Ruth."

"And if it does?"

This time he turns towards her, the corners of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. "If it does - and I don't expect it to - I'll contact Malcolm, asking him does he need an off-sider."

Ruth nods. Oddly, she finds his answer satisfies her belief that he'll not go quietly. She's sure he'll have days when he regrets having resigned, days when he wishes he could go back, even for a few months.

"In a little over a year I turn sixty. Sixty-year-old spies tend not to last long. They're a liability - to everyone."

"Other than me," Ruth says quietly, lifting her head to see his face close to her own.

"Other than to you, of course." His answering kiss is soft, a brief touch of lips on lips. "Let's go back," he says.

* * *

As they approach the cottage from the beach they see Catherine's car parked in front of the cottage, and once they reach the car, Catherine steps through the front door, hurrying across the porch to greet them. Three months have passed since they last saw one another. Ruth steps away from Harry, staying back so that he can greet his daughter first. He hesitates, frowning down at her.

"Go," she says, and he does, wrapping his arms around Catherine as she sinks against him. When they pull apart, Ruth steps forward, giving Catherine a quick hug. "All set?" she says quietly, close to Catherine's ear. Her reply is a quick nod.

"Dad, perhaps you can go inside. Your surprise is in the cottage."

He glances at Ruth, lifting his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

"Go, Harry. This is your surprise, not mine," and she smiles with what she hopes is encouragement.

* * *

Harry already has a fair idea about the identity of his `surprise'. Were it something practical, like - God forbid - a recliner armchair, then Catherine and Ruth would follow him inside, eager to witness his reaction to the surprise. As he stands on the porch, one hand on the door knob, he takes a deep breath. He turns to take one last look at the two women, both of whom are watching him anxiously, before he opens the door, and steps inside.

Having spent forty minutes outside in daylight, he takes a moment to adjust to the dimness inside the cottage. He glances around the living room, but nothing at all is out of place there. Hearing a clattering of cutlery on china from the kitchen, he crosses the room, just as the surprise stands in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen.

"Hello, Dad," the young man says quietly. "What'll it be? Coffee or tea?"

"I could do with something alcoholic, but I suppose that's not on offer."

"Sorry, no. Coffee?"

And Harry nods, as his son turns back to the kitchen, intent on making them a hot drink. Once more Harry sighs, slowly following Graham into the kitchen.

When Ruth had mentioned Catherine bringing him a surprise, his immediate guess had not been Graham, but the secrecy surrounding this meeting, and finally, Ruth hanging back with Catherine had convinced him that Catherine had decided it's high time her father and brother made up.

Harry does a quick mental calculation; by his estimation it is five years since he and Graham have been in the same room together. Their last meeting had been unplanned, and Graham had been angry, surly even, and so his own reflex action had been to return the anger. They had parted on poor terms, and any attempt he had made to again meet Graham had been met with silence.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry sits in his usual chair at the table, waiting for Graham to finish making their coffee.

"Milk? Sugar?" Graham asks.

"A small pour of milk, and two sugars."

Harry looks up to see Graham's eyes on him. He has grown into a handsome lad, his resemblance to him as a young man something neither man is brave (or foolish) enough to mention. Once the mugs of coffee are on the table, Graham sits, his eyes still on Harry.

"I believe I owe you an apology," Graham says at last.

"I was thinking that I am the one who owes _you_ an apology, son."

"Last time we met I was a rude and disrespectful," Graham says matter-of-factly.

"And I lost my temper."

"I guess that makes us even, then."

Harry sips his coffee before carefully placing it on the table in front of him. "It's good to see you. Was this your idea, or was it Catherine's?"

Graham's mouth twists in a half smile, a gesture reminiscent of Harry. "You know Cate. She won't rest until the whole world has kissed and made up." He momentarily drops his eyes before again seeking eye contact with his father. "While it was her idea, I thought it about time."

Harry nods. He and Graham have been at odds with one another for so long that not speaking to one another has become the norm. Without Catherine's intervention it's unlikely he and Graham would have attempted to heal the rift between them on their own. Sometimes leaving things as they are is so much easier.

They are saved from having to continue the conversation when the front door opens, and Catherine and Ruth enter the cottage, their voices bouncing off the walls of the living room, and into the kitchen.

"Alright?" Catherine asks, stepping through the kitchen doorway, her eyes moving from her brother, then to her father. "No blood spilled? No pistols at dawn?"

Ruth's entry into the kitchen is much quieter. She glances towards Harry to check his mood before moving closer to Graham, her hand out. "I'm Ruth," she says. "I'm your father's -"

"I know who you are," Graham says, standing, before he takes Ruth's hand and shakes it. "I'm happy to meet you at last."

"So .." Catherine continues cheerily, "I can leave the three of you on your own for a while ..."

By this time Harry is also on his feet. He reached out to Catherine, who steps closer to him. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"Are you alright?" she asks, equally as quietly.

"Never better."

Later that evening - Harry's cottage:

"How do you think it went with Graham?"

They are preparing for bed. Harry has just returned from the bathroom, while Ruth, who had had first dibs in the bathroom, is about to climb under the covers. She thinks Harry looks exhausted, and could do with a cuddle from her before getting a decent night's sleep.

"Better than expected," he says obliquely.

Ruth knows that by the time Harry entered the cottage alone he must have guessed the identity of his surprise. He's a retired spy, after all, and like philosophers and farmers, an old spy never completely retires.

"He'll be back for a little while tomorrow," she says, hoping she sounds encouraging.

Harry and Graham had only spent a couple of hours in one another's company, before he and Catherine had left to meet Lewis. The three of them have plans for the evening, and on their way back to London the next day, they will drop in for another brief visit.

Having removed his dressing gown, Harry stands naked beside his side of the bed, while Ruth's eyes glance down his body appreciatively. He is slimmer than when they'd slept together almost ten months earlier. His stomach, while rounded, is flatter than before, his face slimmer, the muscles in his arms and legs more defined, no doubt due to the two weeks he'd worked on Mara's farm. Noticing her attention he takes his time pulling on jogging bottoms, and then a t shirt, before climbing into bed, and sliding across to lie beside her. He turns to face her, his eyes taking in every small detail of her face. "I also know that if Graham and I are to have any kind of relationship, we need to begin slowly .."

"Baby steps," Ruth clarifies.

"Exactly."

"I suspect you're rather a lot alike," she continues, "and so -"

"He and I are a flammable combination, which must be handled with care."

"A bit like us, really," and this time, Ruth is smiling cheekily.

Harry growls, gathering her in his arms, drawing her against his body. "Incendiary," he says before he kisses her, a deep kiss with promise of much more. When he ends the kiss, he draws a little away from her, but his eyes still smoulder. "I'm not quite up to .."

"I know. It's been a stressful day, and then there's tomorrow .."

Harry nods. "There's quite a lot at stake ... with him."

Ruth lifts her body so that her head leans against the bed's headboard. "Catherine confided to me that Graham feels similarly. He might one day have a family of his own, and he wants his children to know their grandfather, just as he had known both his grandfathers."

Ruth would love to ask Harry about his family of origin - his parents, his brother, what they were like, and what they'd thought of him becoming first a soldier, and then a spy. The day has already been full, so her questions will have to wait for another day.

Harry nods. "It sounds like he's ... growing up."

"You both are." When his eyebrows shoot upwards she continues the thought. "You're never too old to grow up ... and did Graham tell you he's returning to university next month?"

Harry nods. "I was always worried he'd join the intelligence service ... just to annoy me."

"He still could. He's majoring in mathematics."

"Catherine told me he plans to teach," Harry replies, and by his expression, Ruth can see that he is unimpressed with that particular career choice.

"It's just somewhere for him to begin, Harry. He doesn't have to buy a pipe and a cardigan."

Harry can't help but grin. "I thought that was geography teachers."

"I've no idea. Maths is a very `in' subject right now. If he does well, there's no end to what he can do."

"Including working at GCHQ." Harry twists his mouth to one side, and then watches Ruth as she scoots down the bed until the edge of the duvet reaches her chin.

"We need to sleep," she says, reaching around to turn off the lamp on her bedside table before turning on her side, facing away from him.

As he does most nights, Harry slides one arm around Ruth's waist, pulling her against his chest and belly. Ruth allows herself to relax, ready for sleep, but Harry has more on his mind.

"Thank you for all you did to support Catherine in her efforts to get Graham here today," he says quietly, his mouth against her hair. "I wouldn't have handled the meeting at all well without you. I don't handle conflict very well."

"I know, although you can be quite skilled at creating it."

" _Touch_ _é_. I deserved that."

Ruth's chuckle is light-hearted. "Goodnight, Harry. We can talk some more tomorrow."

He rests his face against her hair, breathing in her unique smell. He looks forward to tomorrow, and all their tomorrows. "Goodnight, my love," he breathes.


End file.
